


The Old, the True, the Brave, Come with Fire and Blood

by Dawn1000



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Book: Fire and Blood, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/F, F/M, LGBT Themes, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Bigotry, Politics, Self-Insert, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era, Updates Every Saturday, but not really, it's actually an oc-insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000
Summary: Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heiress to the Iron Throne, gives birth to her first born child in 113 AC rather than 114 AC, and the babe is not Jacaerys Velaryon. When a daughter who never should have been holds otherworldly knowledge and joins the game of thrones, Planetos is tilted on its axis.* HermitGrey's fic, "Bronze, Silver, Gold," inspired this one, and it's really good! Go check it out!
Relationships: Alysanne Blackwood/Original Female Character, Daemon Targaryen/Laena Velaryon (minor), Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen (VERY minor), Harwin Strong/Rhaenyra Targaryen (minor), Rhaenyra Targaryen & Laenor Velaryon
Comments: 207
Kudos: 351
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts





	1. Rhaenyra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HermitGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitGrey/gifts).



She tells Harwin of her condition as he slips into their meeting place that night, unseen by anyone. He moves to kiss her, brown eyes shining with love and warmth, and while she melts into his embrace, her hand reaches out to grip his when he tugs at the laces of her dress. Head cocked to the side, a question in his eyes, he pauses. 

“I have most wonderful news, my love,” she whispers. Her Sworn Shield smiles.

“Did the Queen finally accept that His Grace chose you to be his heir and not Prince Aegon?” 

She presses her forehead to his, standing on her tiptoes to reach, and laughs. “No, unfortunately. But in a way, this is even better.” Harwin raises an eyebrow but says nothing. In the silence, Rhaenyra grips his large hand in both of hers and drags it to her belly. There’s a heartbeat of complete stillness before her lover’s eyes go wide and he stumbles, reaching for the bedpost. 

“Am I-” he stutters, his voice hoarse, “Is it mine?”

Rhaenyra snorts, a most unladylike sound, as bitterness envelopes her. “Do you truly think my pillow-biter of a husband is man enough to put a son in me?” 

Harwin takes her by the waist and twirls her around them, a hushed cry of joy sprouting from his lips. He sets her down gently, as if she is made of glass, and kneels before her, his hand hovering over the area in which their son grows. 

“Hello little one,” he whispers, and this is the gentlest Rhaenyra has ever seen him, “I’m your Papa.” Then he presses the limb against her, eyes alight with wonder. He rises and kisses her again, once, twice, before settling down on the bed. She lays on her side, facing him. 

“You have made me a mother, Harwin,” she says, “A _mother_.”

“And you have made me a father,” he replies, “And the proudest man in all the world.” They curl up together, his leg thrown over her hip, his chin resting on the top of her head, and Rhaenyra is the happiest she’s ever been. 

* * *

She tells her goodfamily a fortnight later, when they are all gathered at Driftmark. Laenor has already been informed- she told him before they left Dragonstone. This child is not their blood, not closely, though he will be Rhaenys’ distant cousin and Laena and Laenor’s by extension. She orders quail’s eggs and takes a sip of her wine as her goodmother raises her eyebrow.

“That is a peculiar food, Rhaenyra,” she says. The Princess of Dragonstone smiles over the rim of her goblet. 

“Yes, well, I have developed a fondness for it recently. A craving, even, one might say.” A hint of _something_ flashes across Rhaenys’ face before her expression goes from dubious to unreadable. The mood of the room shifts. Laenor stares down at his plate, visibly uncomfortable. Corlys looks up sharply. Even Laena, who hardly seems to care about anything in the world besides flying, straightens in her seat. 

“Leave us,” the Lord of the Tides commands the servants. They bow swiftly and exit the room. He watches each and every one of them trail out before moving to stand and ensure there are no stragglers. Then he turns back to Rhaenyra. “You are sure,” he hisses. It is not a question. The Princess of Dragonstone considers playing coy for a moment, but decides against it. She is not afraid of her goodfather, but it is too early to be arguing, and this morning she was plagued by sickness, no doubt a gift from her little passenger. 

“I would not have mentioned anything if I was not,” she says. Corlys swings back to face his son. 

“Is it yours, boy?” he demands. Laenor shrinks into himself. 

“I- I’m not sure,” he replies breathlessly. 

A tense, crawling silence envelopes them. 

“You’re not sure,” Corlys says in disbelief. “You either did your duty or you didn’t, forcing your lady wife to look for other means of a child.”

“Corlys,” Rhaenys’ tone holds warning as her pale violet eyes flick from her son to her husband. The couple stares hard at one another, tense and angry, before Laena breaks their standoff. 

“Well,” their firstborn says, “I suppose we’ll see when the babe is born. Either way, he will be King some day, and his younger brother will be Lord of Driftmark.” As her parents glower at her, she pales significantly. Rhaenyra catches the grateful look Laenor sends her way and knows she did it not out of impudence, but out of mercy, and offers her silent condolences.

The fact that neither Rhaenys nor Corlys have refuted what she said is telling. They will accept Rhaenya’s sons as their own direct blood, even if this is not the true case, and raise them to be heirs of the Seven Kingdoms and Driftmark, because they know she is the chance for House Velaryon to achieve its ambitions, no thanks to her husband. She raises her chin with pride, and when the wine hits her tongue again, it tastes like victory.

* * *

Ravens are dispatched swiftly to King’s Landing as well as every important Black once she reaches her fifth moon. Congratulations come racing back, full of hope and enthusiasm, for Rhaenyra’s position is truly secure once she has an heir of her own body. Her father the King’s letter is filled with pride and elation. He speaks of looking forward to meeting his first grandchild, of holding the babe in his arms, of showing him the Iron Throne, the seat which will be his some day. Queen Alicent sends her own stilted regards, likely pressured by him, and the moment Rhaenyra receives it, she tosses it into the fire.

Ladies Brise and Elena Strong, Harwin’s sisters and the aunts of her unborn son, laugh at the action. She smiles, watching intently as the parchment curls up and burns, before turning back to her companions. She takes a bite of fruit from a nearby plate, a pang of hunger running through her, and feels smugness overtake her. 

That does not last long.

Suddenly, Rhaenyra’s stomach tightens. A wave of cramps washes over her, almost as if she was having her moon’s blood, and her lips part in a silent scream as she realizes the implications. “Brise,” she gaps, “Get the maester.” The lady in question freezes. Upon seeing her princess frantically lifting her skirts, she pales and races off. 

“Your Grace,” Elena snaps into action, “Sit, Your Grace. There, that’s it.” She helps the princess back into her chair and wipes the hair away from her eyes. Rhaenyra can feel her raising the hem of her dress to her knees, and fear consumes her. She takes a deep breath and dares to look down and-

_Oh, Gods, please no!_

Blood stains her skirts. Her son’s blood. “No,” Rhaenyra moans, “No, no, no!” The door bursts open and Maester Gerardys rushes in. The Princess of Dragonstone is numb. She can’t feel anything; can barely hear the murmurs of everyone around her; her vision is blurry; she can’t _breathe_ because she’s just lost her _son- Gods have mercy!_

And then, everything goes dark.

* * *

In the three weeks following Rhaenyra’s misscarriage, Dragonstone is a dark place. Its lady stews in her chambers, barring everyone save the servants and Maester Gerardys from entry. She forbade anyone from spreading word about the incident within the first ten minutes after she woke, but it seems it has been to no avail- someone has told. The ravens have flown in for days, full of condolences, some genuine and some snide, and the most shattering of all is her father’s. He had been so excited to be a grandpapa, so excited to meet his grandson. Now that baby boy is ash, buried deep within the ground, and though her father is trying to be supportive, he is clearly devastated. 

“Your Grace,” someone knocks at her door. 

“Enter,” she says tiredly. Maester Gerardys enters the room quietly, cautiously, and settles beside her. 

“How are you this morn, Your Grace?” he asks. She turns to him, still in her covers and her shift, hair undone, eyes crusted with sleep dust. 

“How do you think?” 

He winces. “If I may inspect you,” he continues on bravely. Sighing, Rhaenyra drags herself up to a sitting position. He does not prod between her legs- that stopped two weeks ago, but he does check her for a fever, and his eyes linger over her belly. She resists the urge to cover the area as anger flares deep within her chest. 

“Is there something you are here for, Maester, or is it simply to gawk at me as if I am some sort of fool?” The man before her flinches and clears his throat. He eyes her with caution, as if he is afraid she might lash out and strike at him at any given moment. To be fair to him, that very well might be true. 

“It takes some time, Your Grace,” he begins, “For the swelling to go down after a woman loses a child. But this- there has been no change when regarding your own person. And you have still been ill in the mornings.”

Rhaenyra shifts, a desperate, wild _hope_ surging through her before she crushes it. If he is saying what she thinks he is, and if he is wrong, she won’t be able to take it. 

“What are you saying?” she whispers. Maester Gerardys looks her right in the eyes, mud brown meeting otherworldly purple. 

“Your Grace, though you have lost your son, another child may be alive in you yet.”

* * *

For the first moon after his words, the Princess of Dragonstone lives with a kind of cautious optimism. That optimism takes root and allows herself to carry out her duties as the Lady of her seat. Harwin is her shadow, a silent comfort, and Laenor, for all he cannot do his duty, is remarkably kind. Corlys and Rhaenys are here- they arrived within the third day of the rumors about her babe, and while they are furious with her for not informing them and retribution surely awaits her in the future, they do not bother her now, especially not when she told them about Maester Gerardys’ suspicions. 

That optimism fledges into hope- she cannot help it- and finally into soul-crushing relief when she feels her child move within the confines of her belly, his strong kicks assuring her of his life. Harwin likes to feel him when they are alone, likes to press his hand to meet a tiny little foot and laugh and say, “He recognizes me.” 

Rhaenyra, for her part, sends ravens out, yet again, to the lords and ladies of Westeros. _I thank you all for your concerns and well wishes,_ she writes, _but a miracle has emerged from all of this tragedy; my son was not alone in the womb. Inside me, I carry still his twin. If the gods are good, my heir shall be born healthy and strong._

Alicent will seethe, she knows. The dark stain of a misscarriage is less than that of a stillborn babe, but the Queen was most certainly hoping to use this as fuel against her. She still might, but it is a far less effective weapon now that everyone knows Rhaenyra still has a chance of bringing a living child into this world. The Princess of Dragonstone presses a hand against her belly and prays for it to be so.

* * *

The gods favor Rhaenyra this time, it seems. Visenya Velaryon is born healthy and strong, albeit she has come a moon early. She is not the son her mother had hoped for, not the boy to both bolster her position and replace the little one she lost, but as she stares into her daughter’s face, still sweaty and disgusting from childbirth, she has never loved anything more in her entire life. Visenya is her mirror image. A head of wispy silver-gold hair already sprouts from her scalp. Her eyes are light amethyst, not pale violet like Rhaenys’, and her features, from the shape of her eyes to her chin to her tiny little nose are all her mother’s.

“Hello, little one,” Rhaenyra coos, “I’m your Mama.” Visenya’s face screws up and a little fist bumps against the blankets. The Princess of Dragonstone doesn’t realize she has company until Laenor’s voice is right by her ear. 

“So this is the child, is it?” Her husband’s voice is tinged with something too warm for Rhaenyra’s comfort. This is not his child. She might have been, if he had bothered to do his duty and lay with her mother even once, but he did not and so she is Harwin’s. “She looks just like you,” he continues. 

And she doesn’t know how to feel about that. A part of her is relieved beyond compare- no one can accuse her daughter of being a bastard, not when she looks like a true Targaryen though and though, but another part, if smaller, is slightly disappointed. That part had wanted _something_ of Harwin in their babe, _something_ that no one could take away despite her legal father. Perhaps a subtle trait, like his ears. Alas, there is nothing. 

“She’s perfect,” Rhaenyra says. “I have never known you could adore anything or anyone this fiercely.” Laenor hums and reaches out to touch her daughter’s cheek. She tenses. His index finger brushes against her forehead and nose, a feather-light touch. His gentle expression breaks into a smile as Visenya sneezes and stares up at him. 

“What is her name, Rhaenyra?”

“Visenya.”

Laenor frowns at that. “My father won’t be pleased. It’s not a Velaryon name.”

“You’re right. It’s a _Targaryen_ name, in honor of her _Targaryen_ mother. I already promised my first son would be given a name from your house. Just let me have this.”

Her husband looks at her, _really_ looks, and nods. “In honor of her Targaryen grandmother as well,” he adds. Rhaenyra bristles and he raises his hands up in surrender. “You will have to get used to it, wife. Even if she is not my seed, this little one and all who come after her must call me ‘Father’. There’s no harm in starting early.”

The Princess of Dragonstone glowers at her husband and he sighs. “I will leave you be,” he says, “And give you a few minutes more alone with her before my mother barges in demanding to see her.” With that, he leaves the room, and Rhaenyra’s attention is turned back to the most important thing in her world. 

“I shall sit on the Iron Throne,” she vows, rocking Visenya gently, “And you shall not be a secondary princess, you shall not be lesser than the grandchildren of that Hightower bitch. You shall be the most sought-after maiden in the realm, perhaps even Queen some day, and all shall love you. I swear it.”


	2. Alicent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for the filler chapter. I've got a lot on my plate right now, and I wanted an Alicent P.O.V chapter but didn't know how to flesh it out more. Next chapter should be both longer and more important.

Rhaenyra’s brat is to be presented to the court today. She has lived to see two moons, and has been in King’s Landing for a sennight now. Alicent seethes in her seat beside the Iron Throne. She is the daughter of the thief who wishes to steal Aegon’s throne, and through her birth, her son has possibly been pushed down the line of succession even further. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms feels nothing but contempt for the babe. Still, she supposes it's better Princess Visenya is a daughter and not a son. Had it been she her mother lost and not her brother, Aegon would be in a significantly more precarious position.

Alicent is brought from her thoughts as a sudden hush sweeps over the throne room. Viserys sits upon the Iron Throne, wearing the crown of his grandfather, but despite the symbolism behind that and the meters upon meters of steel spikes which protrude upwards to form his seat, he still manages to look soft and sentimental. She supposes that would be how one would greet their first grandchild, but it rankles her to see him be so happy at the little Velaryon’s presence. 

Rhaenyra is dressed in a resplendent black and red gown, the folds of the fabric designed to have the colors shimmer as she walks up the steps of her father’s throne. An iron three-headed dragon brooch is clipped to her left shoulder, right above her heart, and her silver-gold hair is braided in the fashion of Visenya, her daughter’s namesake. Everything about the Princess of Dragonstone (and how Alicent loathes to call her such) screams _Targaryen_. Not even the Velaryon husband who climbs beside her, dressed in the colors of his house, can shatter the image. 

Rhaenyra stops just as she reaches Viserys’ feet. She presses her knees to the dais and bows her head. As she does so, Alicent sees her husband smile. “Your Grace,” her step-daughter says, “I present to you your firstborn grandchild and the first heir of my body, the Princess Visenya Velaryon.” She raises the girl up and hands her off to her grandfather. A little whimper escapes her as she’s drawn from her mother’s arms, but soon enough the Velaryon brat is nestled against Viserys’ chest. Fury burns through Alicent as the court begins to chuckle when she gurgles happily. 

“She looks just like you, Rhaenyra,” Viserys says, his voice filled with awe, “But the eyes, those are yours, but they belonged to Aemma first. She has some of her grandmother in her.”

Alicent bites her lip and murmuring breaks out. Her hands curl along the arms of her chair, her grip so tight she thinks the patterns of the wood will sear into her flesh. To mention Aemma here, after all that has happened, and like this-

She sees red. 

Her husband passes his granddaughter back to her parents, and Laenor Velaryon moves to hold her. Even from here, Alicent can hear her delighted little giggles and the court melts once more. Rhaenyra walks proudly beside her husband as he carries their daughter back down the steps of the Iron Throne slowly, and Alicent catches a glimpse of the new royal princess. 

_By the gods, she truly is a copy of Rhaenyra. One might think she has no sire if they didn’t know any better._

Visenya Velaryon blinks at her as her father carries her, and Alicent swears that, for a moment, her carefree face darkens. Then she is gone from her line of sight and the moment is over. The Queen inhales deeply and allows her shoulders to relax, only to tense once more as Viserys calls for a celebration at the health of his grandchild.

* * *

Supper cannot end quickly enough, Alicent thinks to herself as she keeps Aegon from making a mess over himself. Anger twists in her chest as she sees her step-daughter hide a grin. Her lips purse and she reminds herself to not give Rhaenyra the satisfaction of seeing her rage.

The Princess of Dragonstone sits to the direct right of her father along with her husband and his family. Her daughter is held in the arms of a nanny a few paces away. Viserys sits at the head of the table, Alicent settled by his left, their children arranged in a row beside her. Her jaw clenches as she realizes the implications of the seating arrangements.

Her step-daughter is distracted by her get, who squirms in the arms of her nanny. “Now, now, little princess,” the woman cajoles. Alicent’s lip curls. She is reminded again of how, under normal circumstances, the girl would not have her mother’s royal title. Bitterness engulfs her when she remembers why she does. 

Despite her nanny’s attempts to soothe her, Visenya Velaryon does not calm. She breaks out into a sob, the sound cutting across the room, and her parents rise as one. 

“Is she alright?” Rhaenyra’s voice is tinged with panic. Viserys hastens to comfort her. 

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he says, “Babes break out into fits all the time.”

“Not Vissie,” Ser Laenor replies- _Vissie_?- “She’s usually very calm.” Both he and his wife step to their daughter, but his legs are longer so he reaches her first. ”Give her to me,” he commands, and the nanny does. 

Alicent watches in disbelief as the girl quiets immediately. She squirms a bit, and her father has to bounce her lightly to get her to stop, but in a span of a few seconds, she’s calm again, her head buried into Ser Laenor’s chest. He beams, and the look is so bright Alicent feels she may go blind.

“She knows her father,” The Queen Who Never Was laughs. Lord Corlys does not smile, but his eyes soften and Lady Laena demands she gets to hold her niece next. Rhaenyra says nothing, only stoops down to press a light kiss to her daughter’s brow. A look passes between her and her husband, something Alicent cannot identify, before they’re moving back to their seats, Ser Laenor having to balance the babe in his arms carefully as he eats. Her mood soured further by the familial scene, Alicent prays to the gods for patience.

* * *

Aegon and Aemond are unimpressed by their new niece, but Helaena, much to Alicent’s consternation, is thoroughly charmed. She races off to see Visenya when she is done with her lessons, peers over her half-sister’s shoulder as Rhaenyra carries her, and embroiders the Targaryen sigil onto a little blanket for her.

The Queen watches as her daughter sits in the gardens, the Velaryon girl balanced on her lap. Rhaenyra is off somewhere, most likely reconsolidating her power in the capital, and on a normal day, Alicent would do everything to undermine her and put a stop to it. 

This is not a normal day.

She must nip this affection Helaena has for Visenya at the bud. It will only hurt her later on when the babe grows to become an enemy. 

“Come here, my love,” she pats at the seat beside her. Her daughter stumbles as she rises, and a Velaryon guard reaches out to steady her. Alicent notices he checks on the bundle in her arms first. Her eyes narrow.

“Coming, Mama,” Helaena skips over to her, smiling with flowers weaved through her hair and dressed in her light green gown. The color scheme was chosen on purpose of course, though she does not know it. 

“Let go of Visenya, for a moment,” Alicent suggests, “Give her to her caretakers. She has not napped today and babes need their rest.” 

Helaena’s nose scrunches up and a frown steals across her face. “Vissie gets sad if I let her go, Mama,” she says, and again with that damned nickname, “I don’t want her to cry.” A wave of irritation crashes over her mother.

“She will be upset if she does not rest well,” Alicent says, sharper than she intended. “Leave her be.” A stab of regret pierces her as hurt flashes across Helaena’s face. _This is what is best for her,_ the Queen tells herself. That does not soothe her guilt. A nanny takes the Velaryon princess from her aunt’s arms, and she immediately begins to wail. Her fists wave about and her tiny legs kick. Her nose scrunches up and her face turns an unflattering shade of red. 

“Let me go to her, Mama,” Helaena begs, eyes wide, “Please!” 

She begins to move, her brow creased with alarm and concern, but her mother holds her back. “Let her staff comfort the babe,” she says, this time mindful to keep her tone soft, “They are more experienced in calming her.”

Helaena’s head ducks and she looks at the ground, dejected. Alicent’s heart hurts at the sight. _I’m doing this for your own good,_ she thinks, _One day, you will understand._

The nanny rushes past them after a swift curtsey, whispering words of comfort and bouncing Visenya as her father did. Her efforts are to no avail. As she moves past Alicent, the Queen catches another glimpse of her step-granddaughter’s face. Time freezes. Visenya’s features are contorted, which is no surprise given her tantrum, but not with rage, but hatred. The raw contempt in her eyes is something no child her age should have. A chill runs up Alicent’s spine and the hair at the nape of her neck stands up. She is reminded of the darkening of the princess’s face during her presentation to court. 

_This is the second time this has happened now. It is not natural._ **_She_ ** _is not natural._

As Alicent stares at the retreating forms of Visenya Velaryon and her nanny, a sniffle escapes Helaena. Her daughter is sullen, she knows, and alarmed, but now she is _confident_ this is the right choice. Still, anxiety lingers at the back of her mind like heavy smoke.

(And rightfully so. One day, Alicent will regret her relief over Visenya’s survival over her twin brother’s. One day, she will wish she had wrung the Velaryon princess’s tiny little neck until it snapped, that her head had split open like an egg on the garden grounds. One day she will curse her name more than even Rhaenyra's. But this is not that day, and so she pushes the nervousness to the back of her mind and tries to forget.)


	3. Laenor

With Vissie’s birth and survival comes celebrations and machinations, joyous shouting and muttered swearing. Rhaenyra is in her element upon their return to Dragonstone, cradling her young heir in her arms and smiling at the cheering crowds. Laenor turns to her and smiles, stooping down to touch the babe’s cheek. Rhaenyra is still stiff at his motions, but ever since supper with her family, an unspoken understanding has been between them: they _both_ love Vissie, regardless of relation. And they will _both_ protect her. 

Father’s rage has seemed to cool regarding the paternity of his would-be-granddaughter, and though he does not dote upon her like Laena does, or smile warmly like Mother, he does soften up ever so slightly when she is in sight. _The miracles a child can work._

Laenor is pulled from his thoughts as his daughter (because he has claimed her now, and to the world she was already his long before she was even born) squirms in her mother’s arms. Rhaenyra, for all her pride and petty arrogance, is still just six-and-ten- a girl, truly, and a first time mother at that, so when Vissie throws one of her rare tantrums, it is up to Laenor to calm her. Luckily, she does not begin to wail. Rhaenyra’s shoulders relax ever so slightly. 

“Laena wants to take her flying,” he says. His wife looks up sharply. 

“She isn’t old enough yet.”

Laenor thinks for a moment, trying to decide if he would rather earn the ire of his wife or his sister. “Princess Alyssa took your father flying when he was younger than Vissie is now,” he points out. “And it would not do any harm to get her used to dragons early on.” Rhaenyra’s lips tighten.

“Tell Laena to give her a few more moons, at least,” she bites out, “And make her aware that should my daughter plummet to her death, I shall set Syrax on her with fire and blood, and there will be no place in the world she can hide from my wrath.”

Later, Laenor goes to his sister and repeats his wife’s words. Laena throws back her head and laughs, her shoulders shuddering as she struggles to breathe. “I _like_ this lady of ours,” she cackles, “Tell her not to worry. I won’t drop my niece when I take her ‘round.” There’s a look in her eyes, a glimmer of respect that wasn’t there before, and Laenor shivers. The thought of Laena and Rhaenyra not just getting along but being _friends_ is a glorious, terrifying notion.

* * *

Time drags on. Days turn to weeks and weeks to moons until finally Rhaenyra decides Vissie is old enough to go on a flight. Laenor watches as his wife hands their daughter to her aunt. Her lips are pinched, and she touches the whip at her hip, Syrax’s whip, lightly in reminder. Laena’s lips quirk. Everyone here knows Vhagar would tear the Princess of Dragonstone’s own mount apart in a heartbeat- it would not even be a fight. 

Nevertheless, his sister takes her niece gingerly, with a kind of attentiveness Laenor has not seen from her before. Laenor watches, his entire body bridled with tension, as she climbs up onto Vhagar’s back. The dragon raises her head, and Vissie squeals happily. 

“Perhaps Vhagar has taken a liking to this Visenya as well,” Laena laughs. Mother grins at that, and Father raises an amused eyebrow. Rhaenyra is too anxious to find comedy from the comment, and Laenor thinks, _Let us hope so._

Then his sister is cracking her whip lightly, Vissie tied securely to her chest. “Sōves,” Laena commands, and the last dragon of the Conquest spreads her magnificent green-and-bronze wings and shoots into the sky. Laenor’s heart leaps to his throat. He wants desperately to clamber upon Seasmoke and race after them, even begins to move, but then a firm grip closes around his shoulder and he turns. 

“They’ll be fine,” Mother says, eyes warm, proud, “Laena is the best damned flyer of your generation and they are both the blood of Old Valyria.”

Laenor can feel Rhaenyra shift beside him. “Of course, Rhaenys,” she agrees, but her voice is still trembling. He reaches out to grip her hand. She swings to him, eyes narrowed, but her gaze is quickly brought back to the shape of Vhagar in the air. 

Laena makes a quick loop around Dragonstone, and as she disappears from view, Laenor’s wife squeezes on his hand until he thinks the bones may crunch. He himself fares no better. He can hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Every second seems to drag on. His entire body feels hot with terror, and as he grinds his teeth, he realizes his mouth is dry. Despite his mother’s reassurances, he finds himself imagining how he will save his beloved sister from the Princess of Dragonstone should she drop their daughter, if he decides to at all.

He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding as the shape of Laena’s dragon comes back into view. Vhagar spirals downwards slowly, the sun glinting off her scales, until she lands with a gentle thud. His sister slides off her back with practiced ease, one hand supporting Vissie, a broad smile painted across her face.

“A natural on a dragon, this one,” she declares. “She’ll be stealing Vhagar from me before you know it!”

Laenor snorts at that, his terror fading. Rhaenyra fights a smile as she goes to his sister, ensuring Vissie is unharmed. 

“She did well then, for as well as babes can do,” Father probes. Laena nods. 

“You’ve taken her on her first flight,” Rhaenyra says, “And more than like Laenor will take her on her first swim. I demand the rights to be the one who either places her egg in her cradle or takes her to tame her dragon.” There is a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes hold warning.

“Are you envious of me, Rhaenyra?” Laena grins. “Speaking of, when is Vissie getting that egg? It’s been four moons already since she was born.” 

“We want an egg of either Meleys or Syrax,” the Princess of Dragonstone says. “If there are none by her ninth moon, we’ll just place a random one.” Laena looks affronted. 

“What about Vhagar?” 

“What _about_ her?” Rhaenyra smiles.

Laenor watches warily as she and his sister break out into a round of laughter. Then, Vissie whimpers. All eyes turn to her. 

“It seems as if the little one is tired,” Mother says. “We should return to the castle.” They make their way back to the hall that is Dragonstone carefully, trying to ensure Vissie does not cry. As they settle in for the rest of the day, washing the sand from their persons and dining after setting the babe to rest, Laenor notices Rhaenyra sticks just a bit close to him. His heart swells. He can never love her the way a husband ought to love his wife, can never provide with the passion from the songs, but he _does_ hope they can be friends. A marriage without at least that is damned. 

* * *

The longed for egg of Meleys has finally been laid. The day of the occasion, they clean it and place it in Vissie’s cradle. Rhaenyra’s chest puffs out with pride as their daughter curls beside it, her cheek pressed against its ruby surface. Laena hovers over her, glowing with excitement. Mother’s eyes twinkle as she winds her arm around Father’s, and the old Sea Snake himself allows a smile to slip across his face. _You are our future,_ Laenor thinks as he looks upon his daughter, _And this egg is the first step to your victory._ With a kiss to her brow, he draws her blanket over her and they leave the nursery.

* * *

Less than three moons after Meleys’ egg is placed in Vissie’s cradle, it hatches. Laenor and Rhaenyra stand over their daughter. Mother, Father, and Laena are not here- they went back to Driftmark a moon and a half ago. Their energy is excitement, anticipation, and they lean forward as the hatchling breaks free from its egg. The proud smile his wife wears melts away to horror as, instead of a beautiful ruby dragon, they are greeted with a wretched, sickly thing. Half of its scales are missing, the skin peeled away, bloody and scraped. It’s face is bent and malformed, its head too large so it struggles to hobble. It doesn’t have claws, only webs for feet, and its wings are too small for its body. Laenor feels bile rise up in his throat, repulsion sweeping over him. 

“Laenor,” Rhaenyra shrieks, “Get it away from her!” He freezes for a moment, but as the abomination creeps closer to his daughter, protective fury surges through him. In the distance, Seasmoke roars. He takes the thing by its neck, uncaring of its shrill screams, and dashes its head against the wall. Blood splatters across the floor and himself, and when Laenor looks down, he can see red staining his tunic from chest up. His hair feels wet. 

Rhaenyra rushes to Vissie, cradles her close, frantically checking her for wounds. Their daughter’s wails split the air, panicked and terrified, and he struggles to breathe. Slumping against the wall, he hears the pounding of boots as guards rush in. 

“Your Graces,” one calls, “Are you unharmed?” 

Rhaenyra whips around to face him, her features contorted by grief and fury. The world fades as she berates him, still clutching Vissie, and Laenor closes his eyes. _These things happen,_ he tells himself, _Laena’s own egg did not hatch, but now she rides Vhagar. Vissie will claim a mount of her own, as will her brothers and sisters._ Still, doubt lingers at the edge of his mind. He stamps it down as ruthlessly as he can.

* * *

When a strong, healthy dragon, hatches within little Luke’s first six moons two years later, brown haired, brown eyed, and pug-nosed as he is, Laenor lets out a breath of relief and Rhaenyra, though she does not say anything, relaxes against his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these chapters are getting shorter and shoter :/. With school back and a shit ton of homework, I might not be able to post too frequently. I'll try and see how it goes. Yes, I stole the monstrous hatchling thing from Baela and Alyn's daughter, Laena. Besides that, how'd you guys like the Laenor chapter? Is his P.O.V something you'd like to see more of?


	4. Rhaenyra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah guys, tags prolly told you, but I forgot to mention just in case that there are LGBTQ+ characters and relationships in this fic, and not just the canon ones. If you’re cool with that, great! If it’s not your cup of tea, thanks for reading this far and have a nice day

Rhaenyra watches on in quiet amusement as her daughter rides upon Rhaenys’ shoulders. Vissie’s arms are wound around the neck of her grandmother (and how queer it is to call her such in the confines of her mind, even if the Velaryons have adopted Vissie and Luke as their own) as she giggles with delight. 

They are in a courtyard at High Tide, entertaining themselves for the day. Laena lays to Luke’s right, who is resting in his light summer blankets, sprawled out beneath the shade of an oak tree. Rhaenyra sits to his left. Harwin, dressed in a light red-and-grey doublet, stands fifteen paces behind them, and guards linger at the fringes of their party. Laenor watches his mother like a hawk, trailing her as Vissie sits precariously upon her shoulders. Corlys is weighed down by business, hidden away in his chambers, and Luke’s hatchling is in the nursery. 

“Careful, now,” Rhaenys laughs as Vissie grabs a clump of her hair. Laenor squawks when she takes one hand, which had been holding the toddler’s knee, to free herself from the vice-like grip of her granddaughter. “Oh, hush up, Laenor. The girl is fine, and I remember when you were up to mischief and young enough still to be bent across my knee. Don’t try and act responsible now.” 

The Princess of Dragonstone hides a smile at the high flush which steadily rises up her husband’s neck. Next to her, Laena twitches. Rhaenyra glances at her and grins as her friend struggles to contain laughter. 

Rhaenys makes another lap across the courtyard, entertaining Vissie all the way, before crouching and setting her down against soft moss. “Thank you, grandmama,” the toddler says, and she plants a wet kiss on her grandmother’s cheek.

“Come to me, sweetling,” Rhaenyra calls. Her daughter skips over and plops in her lap. The Princess of Dragonstone kisses the top of her head. “How are you today?”

“Fine, mama.”

“Fine?” Rhaenys cuts in, feigning insult as she settles beside them, “ _ Just _ fine, girl, after I let you pretend I was a dragon?” Vissie blushes.

“Sorry, grandmama.” 

Rhaenyra turns as Laenor joins their group, sitting beside Laena. He flashes a wane smile in her direction, and despite herself, she returns it. The rage at his refusal to get a son onto her has cooled since Vissie’s birth. He has been a father to both her and Luke, who looks everything like another man, and she, while still mildly bitter over this forced marriage of theirs, has come to see him as a friend. 

“Papa!” Vissie squeals and throws herself at him. He grunts as she collides into him, wraps his arms around her as she buries her face in his chest. Harwin’s breath catches in his throat and Rhaenyra risks a look at him. His eyes are tight with pain. He stands stiffly, his entire body taut, and the Princess of Dragonstone feels a stab of sympathy. It is bad enough for him to never be able to acknowledge the children, but to see his firstborn call another man, ‘Papa’, to see another man care for them, cradle them, put them to bed-

She cannot even begin to imagine his agony. 

“How have your lessons been progressing, sweetling?” Rhaenyra asks, just to distract herself. Vissie peeks out from her father’s chest- the heiress to the Iron Throne has long since admitted to herself that Laenor is the only father they will ever know, and one of the best they could hope for. 

“I’m doing good,” she grins, “ Maester Gerardys says so!”

“I’m doing well,” Laena corrects as she drops a kiss to her niece’s forehead, “And of course this is the case- I am not even surprised. Who is more intelligent than our little genius?”

Pride rears up in Rhaenyra’s chest at her goodsister’s words. Laenor grumbles as she scoops Vissie from his arms, but his words lack any heat. Though Laena is exaggerating, her words still ring true. Vissie was crawling, speaking, walking, and running before any other children her age. Her first word, much to Laenor’s complaint, had been ‘Mama’ at only seven moons. A sennight after that, she’d been crawling. At a year and three moons, she’d begun to walk. At a year and a half, she’d begun to speak in understandable sentences. And now, at the age of two, she has started to take lessons from Dragonstone’s maester.

“What a shame she is not a son,” the Hightower bitch had said upon their last visit to King’s Landing, smiling sickly-sweet, “She would have made a perfect heir, don’t you agree? Then again I understand why she cannot be sit the Iron Throne one day- sons must come before daughters, after all-”

Rhaenyra had nearly set Syrax on her then and there.

“-ra? Rhaenyra?” The Princess of Dragonstone is brought back to the present by her goodmother. 

“Yes, Rhaenys?”

“Now that the children are worn, there is something we need to discuss.” Rhaenys’ face is devoid of the ease and joy from before. It is a mask of stone now. Rhaenyra nods slowly, aware of Laenor and Laena’s sudden tension beside her.  _ Do they already have insight on what we’ll be speaking about?  _ The thought makes her jaw clench and her temper flare. 

“Ser Harwin,” she says, turning to her beloved, “Escort the children back to their chambers. Guard them there. I will summon you once more at a later time.” Harwin bows at the waist. He lifts Luke up, wonder painted across his face, and draws Vissie close to him. He shoots her a look filled with gratitude as he turns to go and she nods in response. Rhaenys’ eyes are narrowed in displeasure as she watches his retreating back, but he is Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, so she can hardly object to him escorting her very own children. 

“Now, godmother,” the Princess of Dragonstone says, “What is it you should like to bring to my attention?

* * *

Rhaenyra presses her fingers together as she stares at Lord and Lady of the Tides from across the table. Laenor sits to her right, Laena to her left. It is still bright outside, but the atmosphere is serious, and that makes the room feel darker than it is.

“So,” she breathes, “My uncle is coming to Driftmark.” Corlys, who has had a polarizing combination of spite and grudging respect for Daemon since the Great Council and the War for the Stepstones, nods. 

“Aye,” he says, “And he wishes for Laena’s hand.”

There’s silence for a moment. “This,” the Princess of Dragonstone says carefully, “Could be very good for us.”

“Laena will finally get a royal match, and be freed from that failure of a Braavos, and we will have one more ally,” Corlys pointes out. Laena winces at the reminder of her betrothed and Laenor scowls. 

“What say you, daughter?” Rhaenys probes, “This is to be your marriage, and I would hear your insight.”

Rhaenyra’s goodsister shrugs. “I have met Daemon before, and he was charming enough. In addition, he is a fellow dragonrider. I will have an equal for a husband.” 

“Are you sure?” Laenor frowns at his sister, “Daemon is notorious, and he will not be loyal to you.” The irony of  _ Laenor  _ of all people saying this, when his own marriage is a sham is not lost on the Princess of Dragonstone.

“He  _ will  _ be if he wants to keep his manhood,” Rhaenys snarls. Corlys’ face twists into a queer, pained expression at that. It is gone as quickly as it appears. Laena chuckles at her mother’s words.

“Many thanks,” she says between her laughter.

“So,” the Princess of Dragonstone says, “We welcome Daemon to Driftmark with open arms, gain his support by offering Laena’s hand, and subsequently have one more dragonrider than yesterday amidst our ranks.”

Affirming murmurs ripple through the room. Rising from her seat, Rhaenyra raises her goblet up in toast. “To us,” she says, and the others copy her and down their drinks.

* * *

The preparation of Driftmark for her uncle is not frantic, but it is quick in pace and never stops. Rhaenyra and Laena help Rhaenys to organize the feast which will welcome the Rogue Prince. They set up banners and courses and wines from Arbour Gold to Dornish Red. They arrange resplendent apartments with black-and-red coloring for House Targaryen, and decide together that they will fly their dragons out to greet Daemon with Corlys upon his prized vessel, the  _ Sea Snake _ .

Laenor watches from his chair, Vissie asleep upon his lap and Luke in his bassinet, as Rhaenyra writes down the last few details of the preparations. 

“How are you feeling about all of this?” he questions softly. 

“About the preparations? It is one of my duties as your wife.”

“Rhaenyra,” he says firmly, “You know what I mean.”

Her jaw ticks. She sets her quill down. 

“My uncle,” she says, “Was my first true fascination, even before that traitorous worm Criston Cole, but I was not in love with him. Laena can have him.”

“And you’re completely fine with that?”

She looks him in the eyes, sees the concern hidden within their depths, and softens. “Mayhaps a part of me will always be fascinated by my uncle- he is fire, and he draws in everyone around him. But I am not heartbroken. I have Harwin, and the children, and-” she hesitates, “And you.” Laenor smiles, at that.

“Good,” he says, “Now, is there anything I need to know for when Daemon arrives?” Rhaenyra waves him to her desk and he places their daughter gently against their bed before pulling up a chair beside her. He cocks his head as she begins to explain, and they speak long into the night, a sense of ever growing kinship between them.

* * *

Days on Driftmark are peaceful, after that. Laenor is not fretting about her feelings on the upcoming marriage, Laena is too tired to be wild and exasperate her parents, and Vissie, clever as she is, seems to understand something important is afoot and doesn’t disturb them. Luke is too young to be running around, so they let his nannies care for him for the most part. They are lulled into a pattern, day by day, night by night, until things blurr and boredom sets.

And then, Uncle Daemon arrives. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I’d say this, but Rhaenyra and Laenor are legit turning into my BROTP. How the hell did that happen?


	5. Laenor

Laenor rises early on the day of Daemon Targaryen's arrival at Driftmark. He pulls himself from Qarl's arms, smiling as his lover grumbles against a pillow.

"It's too bloody early for this," he grunts.

"And it's too bloody stupid to be murderd by my lord father and lady mother should we not make an appearance," Laenor chuckles. He looks to the clothing the servants put out the night before and winces as his feet hit the cold stone floor. It is not winter now, but the chill of early morning is strong.

Laenor pulls on riding leather trousers dyed in silver. His tunic, made of the same material, is sea-green. A long cloak, useless for battle but spectacular for showmanship, is a silver seahorse on a backdrop of sea-green. He is beginning to think there is a theme here. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Qarl still in bed.

"Come," he says softly, "You must rise." He is reminded, suddenly, of another man who once laid in the same place, with blond hair and an easy grin and smile lines around his eyes. A flash of pain strikes him, and he sucks in a harsh breath. Even now, two years later, the absence of Joffrey stings. Even now, after he has found the arms of another and has two children and a wife, his Knight of Kisses haunts him. Laenor can avoid thinking of him, most days. He can focus on Rhaenyra, whose friendship he has come to value, and the children, and pour his energy into work with Father, but at some point, the pain of Joffrey strikes at him again, tearing at the very seams of his soul. His eyes burn and his throat tightens.

"Laenor?" Qarl sounds concerned. _When did he get so close?_ "Laenor, are you alright?" Warm lips press up against his, and his scruff scratches the Velaryon heir's skin.

"I'm fine," Laenor murmurs against his mouth. Qarl looks unconvinced, but he draws away and pulls on his own clothes.

"I'll see you at the welcoming feast, I suppose," he says, brown hair still strewn across his forehead, blue eyes crusted with sleep dust.

"Aye."

He nods in farewell and steps out of the chambers. As the door closes behind him, Laenor slumps. Running a hand through his silver hair, he presses his forehead to the wall and closes his eyes. _Now is not the time to be consumed by grief. Now is not the time to think about what you have lost. Now is the time to be strong, to put these things aside, and go about your day. It is an important thing, this coming of Daemon. You can cry later._

Taking a deep breath, he collects himself. He squares his shoulders and rubs the wetness from his eyes. Clipping the seahorse brooch which will hold his cloak to his shoulder, he makes his way to the main hall, where Mother, Father, Laena, and Rhaenyra will be waiting along with the children, with a dark disposition.

* * *

When Rhaenyra sees him, her expression goes from bleary to concerned. She hands Vissie, who is drowsy in her arms, off to Laena.

"What's wrong?" she whispers, looping an arm around his.

"Nothi-"

"Do not lie to me. I am your wife and your future Queen," her words are hissed, sharp and angry.

Laenor hesitates. A wroth Rhaenyra is something to behold, and though they have spoken fleetingly of Joffrey over the years, he has not spilled out his heart about his grief. That day was horrid for the both of them, with his knight's death and her knight's betrayal cutting deep. She has turned a blind eye to his most recent favorites, but he does not know how she will react to a discussion about the man he loved over her, back when her wounds were still fresh. At the same time, not telling her will anger her as well.

"May we speak of this later?" he asks. His wife hesitates before answering.

"Very well," her tone is clipped, "But do not think this to be over." He relaxes and she turns as Septa Jennelyn, whom they have brought in to care for the children, approaches, Luke in her arms.

"Your Graces," she curtsies as best she can with a babe squirming within her grasp, "The Prince is here, as you asked."

"Take him with his sister under the tents within the hour," Rhaenyra commands, "You will wait with them there along with guards and servants until our return."

The Septa nods and leaves to gather the staff.

"Is all prepared?" Father asks. He, like Laenor, is dressed in the colors of their house. The difference, however, is the material he wears. Instead of tough, durable riding leathers, he is donned in silk trousers and a satin doublet, a linen cloak over his shoulders. His boots are different as well, brown, knee-high, and thick-soled- a sailor's.

"Aye," Mother replies.

"I'll be leaving, then. The _Sea Snake_ must make good time across the water." With a light kiss each for Mother and Laena, the former to the lips and the latter to the forehead, a shallow bow for Rhaenyra, and a clap on the shoulder for Laenor, he spins on his heel and leaves.

Everyone else streams out of the hall, from Father's sailors to the Septa and the children, until just the dragonriders are left. Mother turns to each one of them with narrowed eyes, looking over their persons. Laenor sweats under her sharp gaze. Silence reigns, and Rhaenyra twitches. Laenor turns to her and sees her brow furrowed. He remembers that she is not used to being assessed, not as her father's favorite, not as the heir to the Iron Throne, and hides a smile. Two years of Mother being a constant in her life has acclimated her better to these things, but her feathers are still ruffled. It is so perfectly _Rhaenyra_ , he forgets his pain for a moment and snorts.

"Does something amuse you, Laenor?" Mother's words cut like a whip. He straightens and shakes his head. "Good. Now we move to our dragons. The sun will not wait for us, and neither will Daemon."

* * *

They rise with the sun, orange and pink light glinting off the scales of their mounts. Laenor sits upon Seasmoke, strapped securely in his saddle. Mother, as the Lady of High Tide, is at their center as well as Rhaenyra, for she is the highest ranked of their number. As Father's heir, he is to their right. That leaves Laena to their left. Of all the dragons, Syrax is for once perhaps the most beautiful in this moment. Her yellow scales are a good match with the color of the skies, and though she is a bit pudgy, she glints like a miniature sun.

They soar easily, gliding off the light breeze. Rhaenyra has braided her hair, but Laena's ringlets are free, and they trail behind her. Beneath them, Laenor can spy the shape of his father's ship. He does not love flying nearly so much as Laena, but there is something freeing about the experience nonetheless. He feels weightless as Seasmoke's wings cut through the air, floating on the currents. Distantly, he can hear his wife and his sister laughing over a jape one of them has made. Mother does not move to interrupt them. They are moving quickly enough and staying on course, and, Laenor thinks as he looks at her, she is caught up in the moment as well.

_Luke will know this joy one day,_ he thinks, _And, if the gods are good, so will Vissie._

His heart feels lighter.

Then, something catches his eye.

A red form appears over the horizon. Laenor's eyes narrow against the sunlight, straining to see, and he calls to his mother and points. Mother urges Meleys forward swiftly, and the rest of them follow in suit. As they draw closer to the other dragon, who can only be Caraxes, Mother snorts. His rider is decked in full battle armor. The black metal, folded ornately over itself, gleams against the sun, a cape of the same color emblazoned with a red, three-headed dragon, trailing behind. A long sheathe is at the rider's hip, containing what can only be the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister. Caraxes rises upwards with a suddenness which takes Laenor by surprise. He begins to urge Seasmoke after him, but Mother snaps at him to stop.

"Let him have his moment," she huffs, "He's always had to make a bloody show of everything."

Sure enough, her father's former dragon plunges down again swiftly, wings unfurling to drop a dark shadow across the water. They have to crane their necks to see his rider, and Laenor pities him, for he can _feel_ Mother's irritation from here.

"Cousin," the Rogue Prince grins wildly, the shoulder-length, silver-gold hair which frames his face glimmering against the morning sun to make him look like the Warrior himself, "It is so good to see you again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This was a bit of a filler chapter, I'll admit. I'm pretty bogged down when it comes to stuff IRL, so I wanted to get this posted as quickly as I could, especially since the school week picks back up tomorrow. The original plan was to add the feast as a part of this chapter, but oh well.


	6. Rhaenyra

Rhaenyra can pinpoint the exact moment she hears the three of them- Laena, Laenor, and herself- suck in harsh breaths at the sight of her uncle. He is a handsome man with his silver-gold hair and violet eyes and long, straight nose set over his full mouth and square jaw, and the effect he has on them is obvious. His frame, tall and lean, is coiled like a spring, and even from this distance, charisma rolls off of him in waves. 

“Daemon,” Rhaenys says, and Rhaenyra can hear the thinly-veiled irritation in her tone, “We welcome you to Driftmark with open arms.” Uncle Daemon swoops down until he is at their level, smiling all the while. 

“With open arms, my dearest Rhaenys, or with open wings?” He smirks at his own jape, bangs falling over his forehead and sweeping to cover his eyes, before he turns to the Princess of Dragonstone. “Niece! You have grown even more beautiful since the last time we met!”

That is a bold-faced lie. 

As much as Rhaenyra loathes to admit it, she is not as attractive as she once was. Oh, she is still deserving of her title as the Realm’s Delight, but she has had two children in two years, and her waist has thickened more than she would like. While she is flattered by her uncle’s praise, she cannot help but feel a bit of anger flare within her at the reminder of her lost looks. 

“Lady Laena,” Daemon turns to her friend, the bride-to-be, and offers a courtly bow, or at least as courtly as one can be while on dragonback. “It is a pleasure to meet you once again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my prince,” Laena replies. The Princess of Dragonstone glances at her friend. Interest glimmers within the depths of her eyes. Attraction as well. That is a good start; her goodsister does not like things or people that bore her. Daemon flashes her a smirk and her lips twitch in response. It is a look he once set Rhaenyra’s way, and she shifts as old memories begin to rise to her mind. To her relief, she finds that she is not envious in the least, even if a pang of reminiscence strikes her.

Her uncle turns to her husband and offers a cordial greeting, his tone a fraction less warm, though that is to be expected. While Laenor may appear stunning as well with his classic Valyrian looks, the Rogue Prince is not interested in men in the least, and his sister is why he came here in the first place. 

“Corlys awaits our greeting upon the _Sea Snake,_ ” Rhaenys says. “If you will, little cousin, we will go to him.” There is a slight inflection in her voice, a stressing upon the words little and cousin, and Daemon twitches. This is her subtle way of reminding him, Rhaenyra realizes, that _she_ is the Lady of Driftmark, and that they are in _her and Corlys’_ holdings. _They_ are the ultimate power here lest her father the King step in. The Princess of Dragonstone smiles. She is impressed, if a bit indignant as well. After all, Daemon’s being put in place is also _her_ being put in place. 

“Of course, Rhaenys. I should be overjoyed to see your lord husband again,” Daemon’s words are gritted through his teeth, but then he looks at Laena once more and that charming smile is right back on his face.

They dive swiftly down to the _Sea Snake_. Corlys is waiting upon the deck of the ship, his men around him. Uncle Daemon undoes the links of Caraxes’ saddle and leaps down, landing with a hard _thud_ to wooden planks. “Corlys,” he nods sharply and though his tone is light, he holds himself stiffly. 

“Daemon.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and everything is still as the Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake stare each other down. A light breeze brushes past them, and the world seems to stop. Then Daemon breaks out into a grin and reaches out to clasp his forearm with Corlys’, and everyone lets out a collective sigh of relief. 

“It’s been too long, old friend!” the Rogue Prince laughs, and Corlys agrees with a smile.

“The children are by the shoreline,” Rhaenys says. “You will see them when we reach it.” 

“Well then,” Uncle Daemon replies, “We must make haste. I am very eager to meet my future niece and nephew.” 

Corlys’ eye twitches, and the Princess of Dragonstone suspects he did not want Daemon’s intentions to be so public yet, but Laena huffs delightedly and whispers to her, “I like him very well already.”

Daemon leaps back into his saddle, and they make their way to land easily, the husband-to-be and wife-to-be trading quips all the way.

.

.

.

Rhaenyra is tense as they land, and she can feel Laenor stiff beside her as well. Septa Jennelyn waits for them with the servants under a white canvas, shielded from the sun. Luke is cradled in her arms, Vissie sitting at her feet, and the Princess of Dragonstone is painfully aware of the awful disparity between her children. One looks as Valyrian as she could possibly be and the other does not, and she prays to all the gods that her uncle does not say something foolish. 

As they approach, trekking against the grainy sand, Laenor offers his arm. It is a move to soothe him just as much as it is to soothe her, but she accepts it still. Vissie, clever little Vissie, curtsies as they stop shortly before her. 

“Welcome to Driftmark, Uncle Daemon,” she says sweetly. Rhaenyra beams with pride. She watches as an amused smile slips across Daemon’s face. 

“My, my,” he chuckles, “You _are_ a clever little one. I see the rumors were true.” As the words leave his mouth, his gaze slides to Luke, who is blinking at him with wide brown eyes. And just like that, the air is tense again. Laena reaches out and takes Luke into her arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“May I introduce you, my prince, to my niece and nephew, Princess Visenya Velaryon and Prince Lucerys Velaryon.” 

Her tone is light enough, but there is an undercurrent of steel if one listens closely enough, and Rhaenyra loves her for it. Further back under the tents, a figure stirs, and the small, silver-blue form of Luke’s dragon hobbles out unsteadily. Daemon blinks. Rhaenys laughs. 

“The dragonling wants his rider,” she says, “And it would be cruel to deny him. Come, Laena, either set the lad down or allow his mount to perch on your shoulder.” Laena moves to do the former, handing Luke off to a servant. 

“Mayhaps we should move to High Tide so that the celebrations may begin,” Rhaenyra suggests. Agreement rings throughout their party, and they move to mount their horses- glorious beats, though nothing compared to what they actually ride- as the dragons rest or go hunting, dispersing across the island. 

“Papa,” Vissie whines as Septa Jennelyn moves to take her away, “Wanna go with you!”

“It is, ‘I want to go with you,’ dear one,” Laenor corrects gently. 

“Pleeasse, Papa?” The Princess of Dragonstone watches on as her husband freezes under the pleading look of their daughter and knows the battle is lost. Laenor never _can_ resist her.

“Be careful, now,” he warns, “And hold onto me tightly.” He scoops her up and settles in the saddle, and Rhaenyra is so used to seeing her daughter on dragonback now that the sight doesn’t even faze her.

“Has she been riding for long?” Daemon asks as they set off. 

“Not so much riding as simply sitting and enjoying the journey,” Rhaenyra replies, careful to ensure Laenor is not going too swiftly. 

“But she’ll be a great rider when she’s old enough,” Laena adds, “And when she claims a mount, it will be a glorious one, worthy of her namesake.” Vissie puffs up with pride. Young as she is, she does not truly understand her aunt's words, but praise is praise, and even a child can grasp that. Daemon hums, dirt flying up as he shoots Vhagar’s rider a look of utter confidence. 

“I will race you to the treeline, my lady” he challenges, “I’m quite sure I can beat you.”

“Oh?” Laena straightens, and Rhaenyra recognizes the dagger-like grin she sports. It screams of trouble. “I beg to differ, my prince.” 

A moment passes between them, and the Princess of Dragonstone kicks her heels lightly into her horse’s ribs to separate herself from them. It proves to be the right decision because as soon as she’s gone, they’re off. 

“This seems to be going well,” Corlys observes, and Rhaenys snorts. Laenor cracks a wry smile. 

“Let us pray this ease holds,” he says, “The gods know Laena is a fickle one, and Daemon is no better.

.

.

.

The ease, it seems, does hold. Rhaenyra watches over the rim of her goblet as Daemon and Laena dance together, matching one another step-for-step across the floor. Corlys, perhaps not wishing to be outshined in his own hall, stands up at the head of their dais, extending one hand to his lady wife. Rhaenys takes it with grace, pale violet eyes sparkling, and together they twirl, her skirts widening around her to create a halo. Laughter bounces against the walls, and the mood is cheerful, save for Laenor’s brooding. Rhaenyra frowns at him as he tilts his head back and downs another drink. He has been stewing since she first saw him this morning, and though his mood lightened for a bit, it is dark once more. 

“Dance with me,” she says suddenly. His head snaps up to look at her. 

“What?” 

“You heard me. You are the heir to High Tide and I am the heiress to the Iron Throne. We must put up a united front.”

He stumbles to his feet, cheeks flushed with wine, and steadies himself against her. Rhaenyra is glad the children were put to bed hours ago. They do not need to see their father like this. 

She guides him to the side of the room where they will be noticed but not be at the center of attention, and steps in time with him, spinning on the balls of her feet to grip his arm once, twice, and allowing him to grab her waist and twirl her, but not anything more than that. She does not need to let the whole world see him drop her on this night.

“It is high time we speak of what troubles you so,” the Princess of Dragonstone says. Her husband’s jaw clenches and the lines around his eyes tighten with pain. 

“I gave you my word, and so I will keep it, but not here.” Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at his request but obliges him. They finish out the song and excuse themselves quietly, Laenor disoriented, his arm wrapped 'round her waist. There are a few japes, all half-hearted for her husband’s inclinations may generously be called an open secret, and they leave. 

She opens the doors to her chambers and pours herself two cups of water, cold and clean, offering one to Laenor. He collapses against the bed and takes it gratefully. “Now you will tell me what this is," she demands. "We had guests to entertain this night. If you were truly so miserable, you could have simply excused yourself earlier. It is a miracle we were not humiliated!"

Laenor goes rigid, goblet half raised to his lips. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. Silence envelopes them and with each passing moment, Rhaenyra’s ire increases. Just as she is contemplating snapping at him, taking him by his shoulders and shaking him until he _must_ speak, he blurts out a word. 

“Joffrey! I was thinking about Joffrey!” She freezes.

“What?” she asks dumbly. Laenor lays down on his back, setting aside his goblet and folding his arms behind his head.

“I still see him,” he admits, “I see him when I walk alone where we used to walk together and where he used to try in vain to teach me to spar. I’m reminded of the hole he left behind every time I think about how much he would have loved the children, how much they would have loved him. And I manage to forget about him sometimes, but he always comes back. ‘My Knight of Kisses,’ I called him. Seven hells, even the very name I myself gave him haunts me; when I kiss Qarl, sometimes the only thing I can hear is ‘Traitor, traitor, traitor! How dare you love again?’” 

He breaks down sobbing, tears streaking down his cheeks, and Rhaenyra doesn’t know what to do. Her fingers twitch. There is a bit of bitterness, still, over Joffrey. Over how Laenor was able to cherish him and not her, over how her father forced her to marry a man who could never love her the way she wanted to be loved, and a cruel, petty part of her thinks of how _easy_ it would be to twist the dagger of her husband's pain deeper. She envisions it for a moment, but then immediately feels disgust burn through her. 

This is _Laenor_ , the man who has helped to raise her children, the man who has been a presence of support throughout her time at Dragonstone and Driftmark, the man who is her _friend_. To kick him while he is so low- it is a shameful thing, and he needs her.

“Hush now,” Rhaenyra says instead, gathering him up in her arms and pressing his head to her chest. She cradles him as his shoulders shudder and he heaves in a long, ragged breath. “It’s alright, hush now.” She is dimly aware of how her dress is wet, of how it will be crumpled up and ruined before tonight’s end, but in this moment, she can’t find it within herself to care. They stay like that for... gods, she doesn’t know how long, until Laenor’s breathing evens out and he relaxes against her, spent. Eventually, her own eyelids begin to droop as well until they close completely and she knows no more. 

.

.

.

Life after that night is… easier. It is as if some unspoken weight has been taken off both their shoulders. Laenor has nothing left to hide, and Rhaenyra is finally able to move past her resentment after seeing him so utterly broken. They are able to at last unite completely and focus their efforts on undermining Alicent and the Hightowers. 

Summer turns to autumn and then to winter, and children are born in the forms of Joffrey, named after his father’s great love (and though Rhaenyra adores him, the gods know she wept upon seeing his decidedly Strong features) and Baela and Rhaena, Laena and Daemon’s twin girls, whom they swiftly betroth to Luke and Joff.

There are deaths as well. Distant Velaryon relatives and minor nobles and a few Hightowers even, for the gods seem to be apologizing for the looks of both her sons, but none of the losses truly matter.

At least until one of them does, and the aftermath changes Rhaenyra's world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Longest chapter in a while! Sorry for not updating for the past couple of weeks, guys- stuff’s been crazy and I’ve got a lot on my plate. In an attempt to actually be more productive, I’m going to set a tentative update schedule now. From now on, I will try to post a chapte every Sunday. I can’t guarantee I’ll actually manage it with everything going on, but I’ll try my damndest. I’ll let you guys know if it isn’t feasible. 
> 
> I thought about including Daemon’s duel with Laena’s ex fiance, the son of the former Sealord of Braavos, but ultimately decided against it. It just didn’t fit the tone of this chapter, you know? Plus, this entire thing was kind of a Laenor-Rhaenyra moment where they finally addressed the elephant in the room that was Joffrey.
> 
> I’m excited to say you’re getting a new P.O.V chapter next time around! I won’t say who it is (that would be spoiling), but I think I’ll have fun writing it.


	7. Lucerys

Aunt Laena is dead and Luke can’t believe it. They’re standing over the cliffs which watch over the seas of High Tide, Mama and Papa and Grandpapa and Grandmama along with Uncle Daemon and the twins as the ship that holds Aunt Laena is pushed out from the beach and into the water. The chilly wind of autumn blows, and he shivers.

Luke’s throat tightens as memories of his papa’s sister fill his mind. She was the one who took him on his first flight, Vhagar’s egg was the one placed in his cradle, when he scraped his knee and Mama and Papa were busy, she took him to the Maester herself and kissed the gash. He can’t believe that she, with all her smiles and laughter and love, is just _gone_. 

Mama and Grandmama begin to cry as the ship goes further into the water, and Papa trembles. Baela and Rhaena, who stand with Uncle Daemon, press into their papa as his shoulders hunch. Grandpapa doesn’t cry, but he looks sadder than Luke has ever seen him. 

As his own eyes begin to water and Joff, who is too young to know what’s really happening but old enough to know that something is terribly wrong, begins to wail as well, he squeezes his eyes closed tight and tries not to cry. Arrax curls around his leg. A warm hand finds its way into his own and his eyes open again. Vissie’s are red and puffy, but she is smiling as she kisses the tears off his cheeks.

“There is no shame in crying, _Valonqar,_ ” she assures. “Do not hide your pain, or it will bottle up until you can’t carry it with you anymore.” She nods to where Joff is bawling, Tyraxes screeching beside him, and pulls on him gently. 

“Come on, Joff,” Luke says, and his brother throws his arms around his waist and it’s only Papa’, who darts out to grasp them, that stops their fall. 

“Be careful,” he says. “We’re burning the ship soon, and with dragon fire. We’ll get the torches, but you and Joff need to command Arrax and Tyraxes to light them yourselves.”

Luke’s back straightens and he squares his shoulders. Vissie looks as he strokes the top of Arrax’s head, her face twisted strangely. He knows she had a dragon once, one of Meleys’ eggs, but it was a mongrel when it hatched, so Papa killed it. He wonders, sometimes, if she is ever jealous of him and Joff, but he has never had the heart to ask. Beside him, Joff nudges Tyraxes, and the little dragon’s green-and-yellow wings spread out. 

Servants climb up the cliffs, two torches in hand, and Luke takes a moment to pray that he does not embarrass himself and disgrace his aunt.

“Arrax,” he keeps his voice even, “ _Dracarys_.” The dragon doesn’t move for a moment, and Luke feels shame and horror wash over him. Then he hisses and spits until sparks fly from his snout and then flames spout out. Grandmama smiles, despite her sadness, and grandpapa looks proud. He sighs in relief, and Joff orders the same from Tyraxes. Mama and Papa take one torch each, and Vissie shifts from foot-to-foot nervously. 

“Mama,” she says, “May I join you?” 

Everyone pauses. 

Then, Baela says, “If she gets to go, so do me and Rhaena!”

“Me too!” Joff shouts. 

The adults exchange a look. “Baela,” Uncle Daemon sighs, “Rhaena, you may join me upon Caraxes.” The twins are not happy- they have just lost their mama- but they look lighter now.

“Joff,” Papa says gently, “You cannot come with us.”

Luke watches as his brother’s lip trembles. “Why not?”

“You already have a dragon, little one, and a rider cannot claim two mounts at once.” 

Joff breaks out into tears again, and Grandmama lifts him up into the crook of her shoulder, rocking him back and forth until he calms down. Then Uncle Daemon mounts Caraxes with the twins and Papa Seasmoke. Mama picks up Vissie and settles her in Syrax’s saddle before sitting down herself. 

“ _Sōves_ ,” they all say, and then they’re off in the air, a great gust of wind left in their wake, darting to the ship which carries his aunt.They light her pyre with dragonflame and that’s when Grandpapa begins to cry, silent tears streaking down his cheeks, shoulders shaking as his daughter is laid to rest in fire and sea. Luke remembers a prayer Septa Jennelyn taught him and closes his eyes again, but this time, it is not to hide his grief. 

_May the Mother have mercy on Aunt Laena, and may the Father judge her justly._

.

.

.

That night, Baela and Rhaena stay with Uncle Daemon. Mama and Papa take Vissie, Luke, and Joff to spend the night with them as well. Luke watches from Papa’s chair as his parents arrange their blankets and pillows, head against Vissie’s chest, arms wrapped tight around her waist. She grunts and Joff plops onto her, elbow digging into her hip as he uses her lap as a cushion. Arrax and Tyraxes sit on either arm of the chair.

“Don’t hurt your sister,” Mama warns, and Papa waves them over. Vissie wriggles until she’s out of their grasps. She darts across the floor, yelping along the way, and Luke knows why as soon as his feet touch the stone. It’s _cold_. He hops from one foot to the other, a shiver running down his spine, before he finally gathers his courage and races to the bed, Joff, Arrax, and Tyraxes at his heels. Mama and Papa chuckle weakly, and they burrow themselves beneath the blankets. Joff’s freezing feet connect with his leg and he grunts, twisting until Vissie has to deal with him instead. She complains, but doesn’t move, and as their parents break into real laughter, he can almost forget that Aunt Laena is dead. 

Almost. 

.

.

.

“Princess Visenya,” Maester Gerardys says disapprovingly, “If you could pay attention, it would be most appreciated.” Luke looks from the window where Seasmoke and Syrax are flying to his sister and nudges her. She blinks.

“Sorry, Maester,” she mumbles. The man doesn’t look happy, but he accepts the apology. The three of them- Luke, Vissie, and Joff- are sitting together in a room, books and parchment between them. They are taking lessons from Maester Gerardys and Septa Jennelyn now, though Joff’s time is shorter than his and Vissie’s longer.

Luke is concerned. His sister is the smartest of them, and a good student- everyone says so. It isn’t like her to not pay attention. 

“As I was saying,” the Maester continues, “Please recite the Great Houses of Westeros, and their words.” Luke’s mind goes blank, and he is thankful that he is not the one who has to answer. His sister opens her mouth, and the response flows out easily. 

“The North is ruled by House Stark, whose words are ‘Winter is Coming.’ The Riverlands are ruled by House Tully, whose words are ‘Family, Duty, Honor.’ The Reach is ruled by House Tyrell, whose words are ‘Growing Strong.’ The Iron Islands are ruled by House Greyjoy, whose words are ‘We Do Not Sow.’ The Vale is ruled by House Arryn, whose words are ‘As High as Honor.’ The Westerlands are ruled by House Lannister, whose words are ‘Hear Me Roar.’ The Stormlands are ruled by House Baratheon, whose words are ‘Ours is the Fury.’ Dorne is ruled by House Nymeros Martell, whose words are ‘Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.’ House Targaryen, whose words are ‘Fire and Blood,’ rules over them all save the last because Dorne was the only one of the Seven Kingdoms to successfully repel the Conqueror and his sisters.” 

Sometimes, Vissie uses big words, and Luke doesn’t understand what they mean. This time, though, he knows enough to gather that ‘repel’ is ‘beat back.’ _Everyone_ knows about what happened to Queen Rhaenys at Hellholt. Maester Gerardys looks impressed, and Luke thinks he isn’t angry anymore.

Pride coils up in Luke’s chest and he grins at his sister. She doesn’t return the look and he frowns. Her eyes are distant, like she’s looking through him and not at him, and her hands fist the cloth of her dress. It has been a moon and a half since Aunt Laena died, and though it still hurts him every time he thinks about it, he finds the pain grows a tiny bit duller every time. Mayhaps it hasn’t for Vissie, and that’s why she seems so upset. 

_After her lessons, I will speak with her._

.

.

.

In the end, it is dark before Luke can broach the subject. Ser Lorant Marbrand, one of the Kingsguard, is watching over them tonight, and Joff is already half-asleep. As he cracks open the door which connects their room to Vissie’s, a great _creak_ sounds. His brother stirs and he winces. 

“Luke? Whr’ you goin’?” Joff lifts his head from the pillow and yawns. 

“To Vissie,” he replies, hoping that will be the end of it. He should have known better. His brother, who worships their sister, perks up at the mention of her, all sleepiness forgotten. 

“Come on, then,” he chirps, like it was his idea to begin with. They slip through the door, squinting against the darkness, and stumble towards the bed.

“Luke! Joff,” they hear a hiss, “What in the _seven hells_ do you think you’re doing?” The eldest son of the Princess of Dragonstone freezes. Turning to where he hears the sound of Vissie’s voice, he sees his sister dressed in trousers and a tunic and knee-high boots, a dagger in hand and a satchel slung over her shoulder.

She’s going somewhere, and it’s not to visit him and Joff. 

.

.

.

The race through the hidden passages of Dragonstone with only a single torch to guide them. Vissie holds it in one hand, spinning her blade in the other, and Luke gets the impression that, were he and Joff not her brothers, she might have stuck them with it already. Joff bounces on his toes, squealing excitedly at the thought of an adventure, and their sister glares. Luke feels a bit guilty about threatening to go to Mama and Papa about her leaving in the middle of the night, but she would have gone anyway, and he wants to keep her safe. 

“How did you even know about this place?” he hisses. She rolls her eyes. 

“The libraries exist, _Valonqar,_ and so does Maester Gerardys’ desk.” It takes Luke a moment, but he gets what she’s implying. He stares. 

“ _You stole maps from Mama’s Maester?_ ”

“When you say it like that, it sounds awful.”

“That’s because it is!”

Vissie’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask you to come along,” she snaps. Luke scowls. 

“I’m only trying to keep you safe.” 

Something flickers across her face- bitterness and sorrow, he thinks- and he regrets the words instantly. They continue the journey in awkward silence, ignoring Joff’s chattering, until they reach a door. Vissie unbolts it and _pulls_ with all her weight until it flies open and she’s left panting. 

“Come on, then,” she wheezes, “Let’s go.”

“So what are we doing?” Joff asks.

“Visiting my dragon.” 

Luke stops at that, and his brother stumbles into him. He can’t bring himself to care. “ _What_? Vissie, that’s amazing!” Fierce pride bubbles in his chest and he hugs her. His sister does not beam as he expected her to, however. In fact, she just looks miserable. He frowns. 

“Is it- is it like your first one?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I- No,” she shakes her head. “Let’s be off then.”

They trudge through one of the few woodland areas Dragonstone has cautiously, careful to avoid roots and stray tree branches, until they reach a clearing. The chill is fierce tonight, and his teeth chatter slightly as he shivers.

“Before I show you," Vissie says, “You must swear you will tell no one of this. Joff agrees immediately, but Luke hesitates. She looks at him pleading, desperately, and he crumbles. 

“Fine,” he mutters, “I won’t tell.”

His sister smiles. “Now close your eyes,” she says, and Joff slaps his palms across his face so swiftly Luke fears he’s hurt himself for a moment. At his sister’s look, he does the same. He hears the crooning of her voice, and the snorting of a dagon- it sounds large. He thinks he can hear her climbing upon her mount- the muffled curses tell him so- and then the flapping of wings and the command of, “ _Sōves,”_ as dragon and rider rise up into the air.

“You can look now,” she calls. Luke opens his eyes and tilts his head back to see his sister’s mount, unsure of why there are tears streaming down her cheeks, of why she looks go guilty, and-

Oh. 

_Oh._

He’d known she’d switched between Driftmark and Dragonstone when her rider died- he’d seen her circling the castle a few times, but somehow it never occurred to him that _she_ could be Vissie’s dragon. 

But this is no lie, no illusion. Green and bronze scales glimmer against the moonlight and great wings spread out to fill the sky. She does not give a deafening roar- she has no need to. Her eyes are dangerous and intelligent, and though her rider is little, upon _her_ back, she cuts a frightening figure still. 

If Luke were not so stunned, he would laugh at the -what is it called?- irony. 

Because his sister has just become the second Visenya to claim Vhagar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. I cannot write from a child’s P.O.V for shit. I tried so hard this entire time, but then by the last leg I just gave up. How’d you guys like Luke’s P.O.V? As I asked with his father's, is it something you want to see more of? What about the reveal at the end? Kudos to anyone who called that btw. Sorry Laena fans, you’ve lost this round. I killed her because a) A second Visenya riding Vhagar was just too good a chance to pass up and b) I had no fucking clue about how to write her, nor did I know how to include her in the story. Don’t be too mad, please :). I should point out that on ao3, this fic has the tag ‘Major Character Death,’ so, yeah… Laena won’t be the only casualty before this story is over. Also, yes, I’m such a total fucking sucker for family dynamics that I wrote an entire scene that was basically just Vissie, Luke, and Joff cuddling. Fight me.


	8. Laenor

Harwin Strong has left for Harrenhal to join his father, the Hand of the King, and Rhaenyra is in a foul mood because of it. Were Laena here- and Laenor’s breath still hitches at the reminder of his late sister- she would mayhaps have taken it better. But she is not, and so apart from spending time with their children, his wife goes flying on Syrax and sulks in her chambers. 

Laenor is sitting at his desk, looking over some charters his father has given him, when there’s a knock at the door. “Enter,” he calls, and Septa Jennelyn walks in, hand in hand with Vissie. The heir to High Tide smiles at the sight of his daughter. 

“The Princess is taking a rest, my lord,” Septa Jennelyn says, “And she requested to spend it with you, if it please you.” He sets the charters aside and pats his lap. 

“It pleases me very well.”

Vissie scrambles up his chair and he grunts as she settles, all of her weight falling atop him. The back of her head presses against his chest. He nods to her caretaker, a clear dismissal, and she curtsies before leaving the room.

“How are you today, my little dragon?” Laenor asks. His daughter turns to face him.

“‘M fine, _Kepa_.”

 _Kepa,_ she calls him. Ever since she began to take lessons on High Valyrian, she has only ever called them- Father, Mother, Rhaenyra, himself, even her brothers and cousins- by their titles in that language. It is a charming little quirk of hers, one that has garnered much love from the adults around her, and recently, Joff has started to follow by example.

Laenor frowns as he looks closer at her. Vissie has bags under her eyes, dark rings that should marr no child’s face, and her cheeks have thinned. The grief of losing Laena has stricken her- when she first heard, she insisted on holding vigil with Daemon and her mother, but it should not leave her unhealthy. 

“You have not been sleeping well,” he says, and his daughter stiffens. “Vissie, it’s alright to feel sad about your aunt. You can talk any time.”

Her hands, which have moved to grip his doublet, curl, taking the fabric with them. Vissie is a puzzle Laenor has never quite managed to put together, not even in all the seven years she’s been in this world. One moment, she can seem like someone ten years older than actually is, like at Laena’s funeral when she told Luke that there was no shame in crying. Others, she will stomp her foot and scream, or close off completely, like right now. In these moments, her gaze goes distant and she looks as if the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders, and he desperately wants to know what goes on in her mind. Laenor kisses her forehead to bring her back to the present, watching as her eyes focus again.

“I know,” she mutters, burying her face in his chest. “I know. I just don’t wanna talk about it right now.” He strokes her hair and rests his chin upon the crown of her head, rocking her until she slowly relaxes once again. He will breach this subject later, he decides, when he knows it will not upset her so. Changing the topic, he says:

“Now what have you come here for, little one?”She looks up and cocks her head and he laughs. “You always spend a day with me, then your mother, then your brothers and cousins, and then me once more. Yesterday was your mother’s day, yet I find you here now. You obviously want something.” 

Vissie blushes to the roots of her hair and he pokes one of her cheeks. Wringing her hands together, she pauses. He lets her take a moment to collect her thoughts. “The summer was short,” she blurts, “And autumn is coming to a close. I heard the servants speaking of a fair in Spicetown and I thought it would be fun to go with you.” 

Laenor’s heart melts. He sets her down on the floor before, in one swift movement, standing and swinging her around- _by the gods, she is getting too heavy for this-_ as she breaks out into giggles. “I shall be most honored to go, my little dragon,” he says, and his daughter’s face crumples with such relief he breaks out into chuckles all over again. 

_Foolish child. Did she truly think that I, whom she has had wrapped around her little finger since the day she was born, would refuse her in this?_

.

.

.

They are laying across his bed, limbs intertwined when Qarl poses his question. He presses a kiss to Laenor’s shoulder, naked as the day he was born, eyes soft, and says, “There will be a fair in Spice Town soon. Will you go with me?” The heir to High Tide’s fingers, which have been threading through his lover’s hair, stop. 

“I cannot,” he replies, “I have already promised I would go with Vissie.”

Qarl stiffens in his hold and rolls out across the blankets until he’s played across his side and staring down at him. 

“You promised me,” he says, too calmly, “That we would have an outing together at some point before winter came.” Laenor sighs. 

“I know what I said. But I have been _busy_ , Qarl.”

“Busy with what,” his lover scoffs, “With your whore of a wife and her bastards and that new guard you’ve been eyeing all week?” Laenor goes tense. Qarl has been snide before, has been jealous but _this-_ this is too far.

“You would do well,” he says softly, “Not to insult my lady wife and our children. She is a royal princess- a direct descendent of the Conqueror, as am I- and her father’s heir, and one day, Luke will rule over the Seven Kingdoms after her. _You_ are a household knight, and I could order your tongue ripped out with hot pincers for what you’ve just said.”

Qarl’s eyes flash with hurt, but Laenor cannot find it within himself to regret his words. Rhaenyra’s enemies are his enemies, and they have already used Luke and Joff’s looks and Vissie’s lack of a dragon against his children, have claimed them to be Harwin Strong’s seed. And while they may be right, those children are _his,_ have been his for _years_ now, and he will protect them with everything he has. The same goes for Rhaenyra, his friend. His confidant. One of the knights of House Velaryon uttering the things Qarl has is bad enough, but for it to be his own _lover-_

 _Joffrey_ **_never_ ** _would have-_

Laenor’s skin burns with fury. He can barely think. 

“Get out,” he spits, and throws Qarl’s clothes at him, “Get out, and don’t let me see your face again.”

“Laenor-”

“Leave. Me. You will be gone come the morrow, or I will _force_ you from this island.”

Qarl bows stiffly, shallowly, and dresses. Laenor watches him leave, and once the door is closed, he lets out a slow breath and leans back onto the mattress.

.

.

.

The fairgrounds are beautiful. Yellow, red, and orange leaves crunch beneath Laenor’s feet as he holds Vissie’s hand in his own. Luke and Joff did not particularly feel like getting all their work done to go early like their sister did, and so they are not here at the moment. Baela and Rhaena are spending time with their grandmother, so it is just them. He will take each of them on their own trips sometime.

Stalls and carts and shops are lined in rows across the ground, egging towards the beach where children gasp in awe as mummers put on a show. Almost everything is being sold, from the blacksmith’s work to food like eggs and smoked goat to thick wool clothing for winter. 

Laenor himself is wearing a white wool tunic beneath his silver-and-green doublet, and his trousers are warm. He has dressed Vissie for the occasion. She wears black trousers, the colors dark so they don’t stain if she trips and falls, and a black tunic over a little red cloak.These are the colors of her mother’s house, but with guards decked in silver and green trailing them at a distance and the seahorse pin in her hair, there can be doubt that she is a Velaryon. 

“Are you hungry, little dragon?” Laenor asks. His daughter smiles shyly. 

“A little, _Kepa._ ” 

He looks around, trying to find the stall where he saw a vendor selling smoked goat, and smiles triumphantly. “Come on, then,” he says, “Let’s change that.”

The vendor’s eyes widen as they approach, and after catching sight of his clothing and the guards behind him, he bows hurriedly. “M’lord,” he gasps, “What an honor it is to be visited by you! An honor!” Laenor nods politely. 

“My daughter has a hunger,” he says, “How much for your meat?” 

“For one of Lord Corlys’ family! Nothing, m’lord! Nothing at all!”

The heir to High Tide frowns. He does not wish to be coddled, especially by a man who needs his coin. 

“How much?”

The vendor opens his mouth to deny him again, but something on his face must warn him to do otherwise, and he says, “That’ll be four copper stars a piece, m’lord.” Laenor hands him ten and, uncaring of his sputtering, takes two pieces of meat and turns away. 

Vissie takes a chunk out of her piece, some juice running down her chin, and he wipes it off fondly. She grins up at him, but then her eyes go to something else. Laenor turns to look at what’s caught her attention. 

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

_What in the seven hells are the Braavosi doing here?_

Father has been doing more business with them again ever since Daemon killed Laena’s former betrothed, but he did not think they were so close as to have water dancers performing at a minor fair. _Mayhaps they are doing it on their own time?_

And the combatants _are_ dancing. They spin on their feet and whirl on their heels and _twist_ , dodging each other’s blows by a hair’s breadth. They rarely make contact, but when they do, the sound of thin steel clangs through the air, and daring quips follow swiftly. One of them, a dark-haired man, short and thin, ducks from a blow and rolls across the sand before rising while his opponent’s arm is still outstretched, pressing his blade to his chest. “A man would ask his apprentice to surrender,” he says lightly, “Before he must cut out his heart.” The other man does so grudgingly, and the crowd they’ve accumulated _roars_. 

“Bello!” they cheer, “Bello! Bello!” 

The victor bows with flourish, a charming smile fixed across his face. Laenor feels Vissie tug at his sleeve. He looks down. Her eyes are blown wide, and her mouth is dropped open. 

“ _Kepa_ ,” she says, voice thick with amazement, “I want to learn how to dance like them.”

.

.

.

They get back to High Tide late into the evening, just as the sun is beginning to set. They have missed supper, which Laenor knows will irritate his mother and father, but he is willing to suffer that. 

_I must find those Braavosi again,_ he thinks as he kisses his daughter’s forehead and bids her farewell, _I offered them an invitation to High Tide, but I am not sure if that will be enough._

“M’lord,” a servant draws him from his thoughts, “The Princess Rhaenyra wishes to speak with you.”

“Where?”

“She is in her chambers, m’lord.”

Laenor thanks him and heads to her.

He can tell something is wrong as soon as he enters the room. 

Rhaenyra’s head is in her hands and she’s splayed across her bed, a large pitcher atop the night stand. The air reeks of wine, and when she sees him, two decidedly un-Rhaenyra expressions flash across her face:

Shame and guilt. 

His wife almost _never_ shows those.

Laenor’s mind immediately goes to the worst alternative. _Did something happen to one of the boys? No- there would have been word. Not Mother or Father either, or Baela and Rhaena or Daemon._

He takes a deep breath to calm himself. Then he sits beside her. “What’s happened?” he asks gently. Her eyes meet his, and then they flick away. 

“I was thinking about how much I missed Laena with Harwin gone,” she begins, “And Daemon was there, and we started talking about her. The next thing I knew- the next thing I knew, we were drunk, and he was talking about how much I needed a third son, and then-” she makes a desperate motion with her hands.

It takes a moment for Laenor to understand what she’s saying. When he does, a white-hot rage sears him, roaring in his ears so loudly he can hardly hear himself think. He pours himself a goblet of wine- strong Dornish red- and knocks it back. Then another. His wife watches him nervously. 

“Let me understand this correctly,” he growls, “You fucked my _dead sister’s husband_ less than two moons after her passing, with the _intention of getting a child._ ” She flinches. 

“I was drunk. It made sense at the time.” 

“ _It made sense at the time?_ ” he snarls. “In what world, Rhaenyra?!” Her guilt and shame turns to anger, he can see the shift in her eyes, and he knows he has hurt her. 

“In a world where my _husband_ won’t do his duty!”

Laenor reels back. “We spoke of this! We moved on!” 

She gets up from the bed and paces furiously. 

“Evidently not,” she scowls, “I _need_ another son, Laenor, in the case of Luke and Joff- gods forbid- dying before their times, and _I cannot risk another child with brown eyes and brown hair!_ ”

“I claimed them as mine!” 

“You did, yes,” she sneers, “But that is not how the rest of the world sees it! From the very start, you should have fucked me yourself! If you truly cared about our children, you would!”

The accusation stings. Laenors tamps down on the flicker of guilt that rises within him and they both reach for more wine. His mind races. If she is with child- he does not want to think about it, but if she is- he will not be such a monster as to force moontea down her throat. But he also does not know whether or not he can _love_ the child- at least not as much as he does the others- who is living proof of his sister’s disgrace. A thought occurs to him, one which never would have crossed his mind without the wine, he thinks, and as he stumbles to his wife, he spits out, 

“Fine.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then-

“What?”

“Fine. At least this way I can have some reason to believe whatever child that comes out of this is mine!”

He is not sure if Rhaenyra was bluffing before or not, but that is certainly not the case now. Her eyes harden and she marches to the bed. 

“Get it done, then,” she snaps. 

His head spins. He can still perform, he thinks- and how he grimaces at the thought. This should not be so difficult. He undoes the laces of his trousers, glaring at her all the while, and keeps his word. 

.

.

.

Laenor is not especially gentle, but he does not go out of his way to be rough- even as furious as he is, he could never bring himself to hurt her on purpose. When it is done, Rhaenyra turns away from him, and he swallows the bile which creeps up his throat. Dressing again, his good mood from earlier is gone. He leaves her chambers without a second glance, even while a part of him is crying out to do _something_ to salvage this utter _mess_. He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and goes to find Seasmoke and fly. It is what Laena always did when she was troubled. Mayhaps it will work for him as well. 

_If Rhaenyra falls with Daemon’s child, gods help us all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, the end of this chapter hurt to write. Laenor is my son- Sorry Rhaenys and Corlys, I’ve adopted him- and I’ve grown to enjoy writing Rhaenyra as well. With everything that’s happened, things could get… interesting now. Before the angst, you got the fluff, so don’t kill me too much :) Also, for anyone who’s not aware: our guy made it through his official death date! Whoo! Win for people who like Laenor! A thanks to Sauron on ao3, who gave me the idea to flesh out this chapter. Also: I know the plot is kind of slow right now, but Vissie’s only a kid! We’ll get to the super messy, dramatic stuff- promise! First I have to build up to it, though, and make it satisfying. Things will pick up as she gets older.
> 
> Also, I’ve changed my tags on ao3. I know what my ending is going to be, but after doing some thinking, I decided that keeping some alive would just be better in the long run. So ‘Major Character Death’ has just been changed to ‘Character Death.’ People will still die, don’t worry. 
> 
> One last thing before you go: If you’ll notice, Laenor mentions how Vissie swings between childishness and maturity. It’s a bit on the nose for me to tell you this, but that’s because while she’s technically like in her twenties, but emotionally and mentally she’s seven, and those two sides of her clash, which makes her volatile. We’ll touch more on that later.
> 
> If you’re still reading up to this: God bless you, you’re my favorite person in the entire world!
> 
> Last thing, I promise: Vissie is 110% gay, and I haven't decided on an endgame for her yet. If you guys have any preferences/suggestions, feel free to leave them in the commets.


	9. Laenor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to back Laenor chapters! Whooo! Also, please check out the A/N at the end. May be important to some people.

Early in the morning, as the first slivers of light creep over the horizon, Laenor saddles Seasmoke and flies to anywhere that isn’t Dragonstone, mind foggy from lack of sleep. His dragon’s silver-grey scales glimmer as he floats upon the wind, the sound of his wings beating the only thing Laenor can hear when they are this high up in the air. 

He cannot be around Rhaenyra right now. The sight of her- the _thought_ of her- has his blood boiling. And though he loves the children, it will not do them any good to see him like this, harried and stressed and at odds with their mother. 

_I will return before the sun sets once more,_ he thinks, _And then Rhaenyra and I will address this mess._

The thought of that makes him wants to crack Seasmoke’s whip and fly to the ends of the earth, as he and Laena always said they’d do when they were little. At the reminder of his sister, pain shoots through Laenor, so fierce it takes his breath away. 

_Beloved Laena. What would you say now, if you could see the dearest friend you had in this world and your husband disgracing you as such?_ He knows what she would do. She would take Vhagar and turn her on Daemon and Rhaenyra both, no matter how much she loved them, and fill the sky with dragonfire until ashes rained down on those below. _Should I do so for you, sweet sister? Should I show them that we too are descendents of the Conqueror? That it is not just Targaryens who can bring fire and blood?_

The thought fills him with unease. Daemon- that miserable cur- fills him a terrible rage so fierce his chest twists into knots. But Rhaenyra- wroth, proud, spiteful, bold, charming, determined Rhaenyra, who is an utter mess of contradictions, gentle one moment and furious the next... the thought of harming her makes him ill.

_Enough of this. I left to clear my mind, not to think._

Laenor cracks Seasmoke’s whip lightly, drawing them higher and higher until they plunge down sharply. He remembers doing this with Laena many a time, though he never did love flying as much as she, and tears well up in his eyes, both from sentiment and the rush of stinging, salty air, as the wind whips through his hair and he laughs through his sobs.

Laenor repeats the pattern once, twice, too many times to count, until Seasmoke groans in protest and his own arms ache. Guiding his mount to a patch of grass large enough for the both of them, the heir to High Tide mutters an apology. The place is quiet, nestled within the grassy rock hills of… wherever they are. He is not sure exactly. The sun is higher than he would have expected. It is around the time Rhaenyra and the children would be breaking their fasts. He has left a note saying he will be gone for the day, lest they worry, and orders for a few men to find the Braaovsi from yesterday. _Yesterday._

Laenor lies on his back across the grass and feels the sun kiss his face. Seasmoke settles beside him, a warm, comforting presence against the chilly autumn air, and he closes his eyes. His dragon will warn him if there is danger, and he is waried. He did not sleep well last night, mind consumed by thoughts of Daemon and Rhaenyra, and it is taking its toll on him. A bit of rest will do him no harm, especially if he is to speak with his wife again soon, he thinks, so he tries to sleep.

.

.

.

Sleep does not come. Every time Laenor closes his eyes, the image of Laena, demanding vengeance flashes across his mind. If it is not her, it is Rhaenyra, accusing him of not caring for their children, or Mother and Father spitting blood. 

He twists on the ground, trying to find a way to get comfortable, before eventually giving up. He pats the dirt and leaves off him and paces around the clearing. Seasmoke stirs from where he is resting and gives him a look as if to say, _“What in the seven hells are you doing?”_

In a fit of emotion- all his pent up hurt and frustration and regret- he punches at a tree. The bones crunch and he curses as pain shoots up his arm. _Anger is clouding my judgement today._ No sooner does the thought come to him that he freezes. _Clouded judgement. Things I would never do without-_

Laenor suddenly wishes he had a quill, ink, and a roll of parchment. Slowly, understanding forms. Things are beginning to make sense. He is still riddled with anger and hurt, still resentful, but he knows what he can- what he _will-_ say to Rhaenyra now. Mounting Seasmoke, he flies to Dragonstone before he can forget his thoughts. 

.

.

.

Rhaenyra stares at him, eyes burning with bitterness and defiance, but in them, he thinks he can see guilt as well. She is twisting the rings on her fingers, a tell of her anxiety, and he taps at his arm.

“Why have you come to me, Laenor?” his wife asks. The heir to High Tide squares his shoulders.

“We need to speak about yesterday.”

Her eyes flash. 

“You made your disgust known well enough then.” 

There is hurt in her tone- the same hurt he can feel in his heart- and he thinks he will have to sit for this. Motioning to a chair in her solar, he says, “May I?” She is silent for a moment, unmoving, and briefly, Laenor thinks that she will turn him down. Then she nods sharply and he holds back a sigh of relief. 

“I will not apologize for my words,” he says, “Though they were harsh and brought you pain, that was how I felt in the moment, and how I still feel now.”

“Then why are you here?” Rhaenyra’s tone is waspish and biting, but it is also strained. 

“Because-” he hesitates. His wife’s lip curls and her fists tighten. “Because though I do not like it, I can understand it.” Rhaenyra’s mouth drops open. Slowly, she leans forward until her eyes are looking directly into his own. 

“Laenor?”

She says only a word, only his name, but hope is there, tentative as it is. He stamps down the anger which rises within him at that. 

“You missed my sister. You are still in mourning, as am I. Powerful emotions cause us to act foolishly. To add onto that, you were drunk. These two things combined addled your mind when you brought Daemon to your bed, just as they addled mine when I chose to bed you.” 

Rhaenyra goes still for a moment, working through everything she has heard. Then she says: “I should not have bedded him. To do so was in poor taste, and I regret disgracing Laena. I do.” Her hand finds his, but he gently pulls away. 

“I said I could understand your actions,” he replies, “Not that I could like or even accept them. In time, I will forgive you. But I need space now, and a while to think.”

She flinches back as if she has been struck and Laenor swallows hard. Her fingers twitch, almost as if she is prepared to reach out for him again, but then she twists her rings. 

“If that is what you wish- If that is what you wish, I shall give you the time you need. But Laenor-” and here Rhaenyra hesitates, voice sounding small, eyes searching his with a kind of childlike desperation, “You _will_ forgive me, yes? Your wounds will heal over time?” 

He purses his lips. “You are the mother of my children, my future queen, my friend, my confidant. I am furious now, and injured, but I will move on. I loved Laena, but I love you as well, and your crime is not so terrible that I won’t be able to forgive it eventually.” 

With that Laenor bows at the waist and leaves her, feeling both heavier and lighter than before. 

.

.

.

Much to her credit, Rhaenyra tries to adhere to his wishes. This is her seat of power as the Princess of Dragonstone. She does not have to respect any of his requests, but she does so anyways, perhaps understanding that if they are to repair this void between them, this is vital. Laenor sees her when they spend time with the children and when they break their fasts, and at supper, but besides that, they keep their distance. It is awkward and stilted, but the children do not seem to notice. At least, not besides Vissie, who looks between them worriedly. 

Mother and Father have noticed, and the latter pulls him aside to tell him he’d best fix whatever has broken, and he nods his head while letting his mind travel. The trail of the Braavosi has gone cold. They went to the mainland, his men say, but they’ll return to Driftmark once their journey is over with. Vissie will have to wait, but once they’re back, she’ll have good teachers. 

Life continues at its awkward gate while Laenor allows himself to heal, and he slowly spends more time around Rhaenyra. It is not much, just a few more moments here and there, but it is progress. 

Then Harwin Strong dies along with his father at Harrenhal, and Laenor can’t bring himself to leave her alone in her sorrow.

.

.

.

Laenor can hear Rhaenyra’s sobs from the other side of the door. They are terrible sounds, full of heartbreak and suffering, and he grapples with indecision as he leans against the wall. _Should I go and comfort her, or should I keep my distance?_

He has not forgiven her yet, not completely, and he does not know if it is his place to help her, if he even wants to. She continues to cry, but then she wails, and his hand twitches. He cracks the door open. At the sight of her, a dishevelled mess with red eyes and a puffy face and hair strewn about, he makes his decision. 

_How could I simply leave her like this?_

He walks to her, still wary, and settles next to her on her bed. Spreading his arms, he waits for her to decide how she copes. He is here should she need him, but he can leave should she wish to be alone. Rhaenyra flies into his hold, her sobs reverberating against him. 

“There there,” he rests his chin atop her head, “It’s alright. We’ll get through this.”

“It’s _not_ alright!” she cries, “Harwin is _dead_ and he never got to be a father to his _children,_ even if you’re the best they could have asked for, and I’m _with child!”_

Laenor freezes. He goes rigid, his arms and legs locking, and his wife must be able to tell because she looks up at him through tear-filled eyes and wrings the fabric of his doublet with her fingers. 

“Laenor?” Rhaenyra trembles, “Laenor, say something.” 

“I will love it,” he says, and realizes he means it, “The lad shall be mine. Not Daemon’s. _Mine._ He will be brother to my children and son to my wife, and the Rogue Prince shall _never_ be his father!” He is surprised by the ferocity of the last statement. _Taking Daemon’s child and loving him, being the best father possible- that may just be the best vengeance I can ask for,_ he thinks, _And it is beyond cruel besides to hold a child’s birth against him. Such things are beneath me, and I will not stoop so low._

“It could be yours,” Rhaenyra says quietly, and gods, he prays for that to be the truth. But he is realistic; the chances of that are little to none. He does not say that, does not crush their hope, and instead, he draws her closer. That seems to be all she needs to break out into tears again. Laenor rocks her gently, kisses her forehead, and dedicates himself to comforting her.The other worries- concerning as they are- will have to wait. 

.

.

.

The child is born during a winter storm, rare in both its appearance and ferocity, and Laenor prays. _By the Seven,_ he begs, _If he is not mine, at least do not let him have too much of Daemon in him._

Rhaenyra screams and curses and screams more, but by the end, both she and the child are healthy, Maester Gerardys says. His wife is holding the boy, as it has been reported to be, and she’s crying. His heart sinks. 

_He must look like Daemon._

Summoning his courage, he approaches, repeating the promise that he will love this child no matter what over and over in again the brief few seconds it takes to reach them. His mouth feels dry and his heart beats so loudly he can hear it roaring in his ears.

Laenor sits beside his wife and the babe and leans over her shoulder to see their new addition. His eyes fly wide open and he laughs through his sobs, giddy with relief. 

Because the child sports a light cap of midnight-black hair and pale violet eyes are peering up to meet him, and everything about his features screams of Mother. 

“Aemon,” Rhaenyra says, “In honor of your grandfather, and in honor of my mother.” 

“Prince Aemon Velaryon,” he presses his forehead to hers, “I like the sound of that.”

(So delighted are they that, when the children enter to meet their new brother, they don't even notice their eldest do a double-take and confusedly mutter, "What the _fuck_?")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo? How’d you guys like my twist? Some of you saw it coming, I’m sure, but I hope I surprised at least a few people! The thing about Vissie and Vhagar will be revealed soon! Like next chapter or the one after that soon, so don’t worry!
> 
> Speaking of Vissie: I have the ending for this fic roughly planned out, but I don’t have an endgame for her yet. She’s gay. Like 110% gay. If you guys have any suggestions for pairings, I’m open to them. Can’t guarantee that I’ll go through with the most popular ones, but I’ll at least consder what you guys say.
> 
> (This is mostly for people not on ao3 since people there have given a few resposnes already, but if you haven't yet here, feel free)


	10. Lucerys

Luke stands at his family's side as ships pull into Dragonstone. Their Grandpapa the King arrives today along with the Queen and their aunt and uncles. He isn't excited. Vissie likes Helaena, and she always plays with them when they ask, and Daeron's fine, he supposes, but Aemond and Aegon are rude and short-tempered, and Vissie calls them asshats. He doesn't know what that means exactly, but it doesn't sound like a good thing, so he thinks he agrees.

"Stay still, Luke," Mama says as he rocks from foot to foot. She's holding his newest brother, Aemon, in her arms. Papa had been against it at first, saying how he could get sick, but Mama had replied by saying, "We'll only be out for a moment, and it's important the Hightower bit- the _Queen_ sees him. And besides, it's not so cold. You fretting isn't necessary."

Luke knows that any royal child, especially the heir's, is important. But Mama _boasts_ about Aemon, delights in his black hair and pale violet eyes, and he can't help but feel resentful towards him. Before, Mama's attention was split equally. Now, she spends all her time with her youngest.

"Here they come," Vissie says. Luke glances at her. Her face is set in a neutral expression, eyes unreadable, but she's trembling beside him. He frowns. His sister is their parents' daughter, strong and fierce, and the thought of her being upset makes _him_ upset. He slips his hand into hers.

"What's wrong?" he whispers as the royal party approaches.

"Nothing, _Valonqar_ ," she shakes her head.

Luke bites the inside of his cheek. He could push, and she might tell him, but she might also snap, and then he'll never find out. Instead of forcing an answer, he just squeezes her hand in silent comfort. She smiles at him, and he returns the look.

Three dragons circle overhead as they wait for the royal family of King's Landing: Meleys, Seasmoke, and Syrax. Caraxes and Uncle Daemon are missing. Mama frowns up, lips pressed tightly together when she doesn't spot him, and Papa's eyes narrow.

"Summon that uncle of yours, Rhaenyra," Papa mutters.

"And then what, Laenor? Have him stand next to us? Is that what you want?" Mama hisses back. Her voice is so low Luke can barely hear, and he inches closer by instinct. Well, he tries to until he's pulled back.

"Don't worry about what the adults are fighting over, _Valonqar_ ," she whispers. Then her face twists and he turns to see what she's looking at.

A litter with the crest of a red, three-headed dragon on a black field, is making its way across the sand. Horses trot to them in a steady gate. Another shadow falls over them, and Luke looks up. His eyes widen.

Dreamfyre spirals down slowly, roaring out in greeting to the other dragons, blue-and-silver scales flashing against the rays of the sun. From her back, Helaena waves eagerly, laughing over the wind and her mount's flapping wings as sand flies everywhere and she lands. Sliding out of her saddle, she races to them.

Luke is envious. It will be _years_ until Arrax is old enough to ride as such.

"Vissie!" his aunt shouts in greeting. She's wearing riding leathers and high boots, but she's still managing to run, a smile from ear-to-ear upon her face.

"Aunt," Vissie curtsies easily. Helaena blinks for a moment, as if confused about why her niece doesn't just go and hug her, before realizing the pointed stares she's getting. She blushes.

"Sister," she bows, "Goodbrother. It is an honor to be with you upon Dragonstone." Mama's eyebrow is raised high, but she nods. Papa smiles.

"It is an honor to have you here, Helaena," Mama replies. Aemon squirms in her arms and Grandmama clears her throat, catching Helaena's attention.

"Is this my newest nephew?" she croons. Walking to him, she stands on her tiptoes. Her mouth drops open. "Why Cousin Rhaenys, he looks everything like you!" Grandmama smiles proudly and moves to kiss his brow. A stab of irritation pierces Luke.

_Aemon this, Aemon that. What's so interesting about him anyway? All he does is sleep and cry._

He's cut from his thoughts as warm arms wrap around him. "Luke!" his aunt cries, "You've gotten so big! Why, now you reach my chest!" He straightens with pride. "And Baela and Rhaena! You're beautiful as always! Joff! I see you're a tough man now!" Joff taps at the wooden training sword- and it's actually Luke's- that he insisted on carrying with him proudly. Helaena ruffles his hair.

"What am I," Vissie laughs, "Chopped liver?" There's a moment of confused silence. Sometimes, Vissie says things that don't make any sense. Like right now, or when she says, 'We're on two different wavelengths,' or when she goes off into her own head and starts muttering to herself about dances and dragons before realizing what she's doing and snapping her mouth shut. Mama calls it 'one of her eccentricities.' Papa calls it 'endearing.'

"Chopped liv-" Helaena shakes her head, "You know what? Nevermind. Come and give me a hug!" She flies at Vissie, who spreads her arms open, and they tumble to the sand.

"Helaena!" A voice cuts out across the beach, thick with disapproval. Luke recognizes it. Turning, he sees Grandpapa's wife, the Queen, stepping out of her litter, his Mama's Papa and their children in tow. "Act like the princess youare! You are _not_ some savage!"

Helaena stiffens. Standing slowly, she dusts herself off. "My apologies, Mother," she says. The Queen's face softens and she draws Luke's aunt close and kisses her forehead.

"Your Graces," Mama says, "I welcome you to my seat of Dragonstone." Something flashes across the Queen's face, fierce and ugly, and Luke bristles.

"Rhaenyra!" Grandpapa cries, "It is so good to see you again! And the children, oh, they've grown so much!"

The Queen smiles at the mention of Luke and his siblings. It's not a pretty smile, sharp and angry."Yes," she says, "And I do believe you have another babe now, my princess, and that he is in your arms right this second. Show him to us. I am sure that, like his siblings, he is a _strong_ , handsome child with his… Arryn looks."

Mama's returning smile, which had been so smug before, freezes. Papa's face twists with anger. Grandmama scowls and _Kepar_ -that is the Valyrian term for grandfather, and what Vissie has taken to calling Papa's Papa- stiffens. Luke doesn't know what's so bad about calling him and Vissie and Joff strong, but he stays quiet.

"Alicent!" Grandpapa turns to his wife, voice full of irritation and warning.

"It would be my pleasure to show you my son, Your Grace," Mama says through gritted teeth, "As you know, he is named Aemon, after his grandmother's father." The Queen steps forward, her lip curling, only for shock and disbelief to spread across her face when she catches sight of Luke's brother. For the life of him, he can't understand why.

"Now," Papa says, his tone cheerful but his eyes hard, "Shall we head to the castle?" Luke wonders why the Queen's family looks so put-out, and why his family seems so proud the entire way there.

.

.

.

The feast is in full swing, laden with music and dancers and even Mama's fool, Mushroom, is putting on a show when Uncle Daemon comes bursting through the doors. He's wearing a red-and-black doublet and trousers, his hair cut to his shoulders and flowing freely. Caraxes' whip is still at his hip and he is carrying a wooden box layered with velvet. "Brother," he calls, bowing low, "It is such a pleasure to see you here!"

"Enough of a pleasure that you did not show up to greet me," Grandpapa replies. Uncle Daemon grins.

"I was getting you your gift, brother!"

Grandpapa straightens.

"A gift from you is either a curse or a blessing. Should I be wary?"

"You wound me! I have collected the finest wines in all of Westeros for you, from Dornish Red to Arbour Gold! I must warn about the former, however- it can intoxicate quite swiftly, and cause one to take actions they otherwise would not!"

Luke is sitting slightly below Mama on the daias, but he hears her gasp from here. Looking to her, he sees her face is white. Her hand is gripping Papa's tightly.

_What's so bad about wine?_

Grandpapa roars with approval at Uncle Daemon's gift, and the court cheers. The case is cracked open and Grandpapa orders bottles to be poured in small amounts for his courtiers and they praise his generosity. Uncle Daemon bows again and takes a seat beside the twins, who latch onto him, nodding to Mama before turning his attention to his daughters.

"Get ready for a long feast, _Valonqar_ ," Vissie whispers as the Queen glares at their uncle, "This night is going to end either greatly or terribly."

.

.

.

Luke dances with Baela, stumbling over his feet and tripping as he tries to avoid stepping on her toes, as the court coos. His cousin's cheeks are flushed pink, whether from anger or embarrassment he doesn't know. Joff and Rhaena and Vissie sit to the side, as well as Aemon, Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron. His sister is speaking with their aunt about Dreamfyre- he catches snippets of their conversation- and Luke ends his dance with Baela, tired and curious about Helaena's dragon. Mama's ladies groan softly for a moment, but they're back to squealing when he bows and kisses Baela's hand. Then he pulls her over to the rest of the children.

Aegon looks bored and he's staring distantly into his goblet. Aemond is glaring at the dance floor with his arms crossed over his chest. Daeron is talking with Joff about his training sword. Baela curls beside Rhaena and they begin whispering amongst themselves, so Luke moves to Vissie and plops beside her.

"Luke," his sister kisses his cheek, "Hellie was just telling me about how she takes Dreamfyre flying every day! Did you know that her last rider was Rhaena Targaryen? The Old King's sister!"

She rambles on, her mood light, and he smiles. She is more at ease, now, happier, and that makes him glad. He hates seeing her upset.

Then, of course, Aemond has to ruin it.

"What right do you have to talk about dragons and dragonriders?" he sneers, "The last one you had, you ruined."

Luke goes tense and Vissie's face darkens. Her hands curl to fists.

"Don't be mean, Aemond," Helaena frowns.

 _"Don't be mean, Aemond,"_ her brother mocks, "I'll say what I like, Helaena."

"No, you won't," Luke snaps, "You don't have the right to insult my sister under our mother's own roof."

His uncle glares at him. "I'm just speaking the truth," he says, "Everyone calls Visenya a genius, but she's the one who was so pathetic her own dragon hatched out as an abomination."

The room is dead silent, and Luke realizes that every. Single. Person. Is staring. At his sister's humiliation, a rage he's never felt before consumes him and he lunges for his uncle, hands outstretched.

"Luke!" Vissie screams and grabs at him, holding him back as he struggles against her. He breaks free and realizes Joff is right beside him, the two of them rushing Aemond.

"You're wrong!" they shout in unison as they shove him to the floor. "Vissie _has_ a dragon, and it's a better one than _you'll ever get_!"

Then they realize what they've said and stare at one another in horror.

_Oh no._

Slowly, they turn to look at their sister, expecting to see rage or betrayal on her face. What Luke sees instead confuses him. She's slumped against Helaena, the beginnings of a bruise on her face _-_ ** _I_** _did that?-_ and her expression is a mask of relief.

"Luke, Joff," Mama's voice is iron as mutters begin to fill the room, " _What_ did you just say?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit shorter than I intended, but it felt clunky to just drag it out.
> 
> Aemond is kind of a dick, but he's like ten, and all kids are dicks at that age. Stuff changes now. The world now knows that Vissie is a dragonrider, and she just gained a hell of a lot of influence for that. She'll use that to the best of her abilities. Nothing really left to say, so have a great day or night wherever you are in the world :)


	11. Rhaenyra

Rhaenyra is still as her sons hesitate to answer her question, her eyes fixed on their sister. Vissie is leaning against Helaena, a bruise forming along her temple, the skin slightly broken, and her mother is frozen with horror.

Her question hangs heavy in the air, pinning everyone to their places, until her daughter says, "They said I have a dragon, _Mu_ _ñ_ _a_." At her words, a dam is broken in Rhaenyra, and she races to Vissie, heart pounding and mouth dry as her mind whirls.

 _It could not have been a hatchling,_ she thinks, wiping at the little blood stain on her firsborn's face, _She would have had to keep it with her at all times, and she would have been found out._ Rhaenyra lifts up Vissie's chin and scans her face for injury. _My daughter, only seven, with a dragon grown. By the gods, she could have been killed! She could have been killed…_

Distantly, the Princess of Dragonstone can feel her husband beside her and hear her father roaring at courtiers to leave them. In the back of her mind, she registers his rage and wonders who it is aimed at. Her primary concern, however, is her child. Once she is sure Vissie is not harmed, she swings to face her half-brother.

"How _dare_ you," Rhaenyra snarls, "How dare you insult my family beneath mine own roof!"

Aemond's lip curls and his bitch of a mother places a hand on his shoulder, her eyes narrowed. "If you have not forgotten, Rhaenyra, Aemond is your family as well. Or are you so reluctant to admit he is such?"

The Princess of Dragonstone sees red. _The nerve of you,_ she fumes, _I am not your childrens' blood when you are furthering your Hightower agenda, but the moment you need me to be, we are some happy, united family. You don't get to claim that. Not after you betrayed me and I had to grow up looking for daggers in the dark._

Rhaenys snorts at Alicent's words and Corlys' eyes furrow. Laenor goes to hold her hand and Uncle Daemon half-rises from his seat until-

" _Enough!"_ Father booms. Rhaenyra tenses. He is sitting stiffly, hand clenching his goblet so tightly his knuckles are white. His face is red, both from anger and wine if she had to guess, and his eyes snap frantically from his daughter to his wife. Father is a good man, a jolly man, and he has not been truly furious in many years. The last time was when he discovered Daemon deflowered her. Looking at him now, Rhaenyra sees the steel he so rarely draws upon, the Targaryen madness in his eyes. It's ridiculous that as a woman grown at three-and-twenty, with children of her own and a seat upon Dragonstone and a beast that takes her soaring through the skies, she is afraid. But here she is, sweat beading down her forehead, swallowing hard and praying that her lord father's rage is not directed at her and hers.

"I came here to visit my newest grandchild and to celebrate the new year," Father growls, "Not to see my wife and my firstborn rip at each other's throats-" and Rhaenyra winces as she remembers, suddenly, how much he hates when the royal schism is undisguised before him- "Not to see my grandsons flying at my son to defend my granddaughter's honor!"

Father rises and they all follow in suit, even Daemon, whose eyes hold barely disguised amusement. The children are all whimpering, unused to seeing him so wroth, and he stumbles out of the hall drunkenly.

"Wait, my love!" Alicent calls after him, disappearing around the corner. Her children hesitate for a moment before following.

Rhaenyra sighs heavily and leans against Laenor, all the energy leaving her body. As Daemon takes Baela and Rhaena away and Corlys and Rhaenys carry Aemon to the nursery to give her and Laenor space to discipline their three eldest in private, Vissie, Luke, and Joff shift uncomfortably. She pours herself a goblet of wine. " _You,"_ she points to the three of them, "Are going to tell me when Vissie acquired her dragon, which one she claimed, and why you thought it was a good idea to hide this from me. _Now_." She is too tired to shout, but her skin burns, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and it must show in her voice because her daughter pales rapidly.

 _Good_.

.

.

.

Rhaenyra wants to slap her children. She wants to take them by the shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle. She wants to take a book and beat them over the heads until some sense makes its way through their thick skulls and they never do anything as brave or foolish ever again. Based on Laenor's tension, he feels the same.

"You. Claimed. Vhagar." Her words are said quietly, barely more audible than a mutter, but Vissie, Luke, and Joff all flinch back.

"Yes, _Mu_ _ñ_ _a,_ " her daughter's voice shakes.

"You, a girl of seven years, claimed the last dragon left of the Conquest, the most formidable of her kind, and snuck out to go flying with her regularly. And your brothers, when they discovered this, kept your secret for _moons_."

"... Yes, _Mu_ _ñ_ _a."_

Rhaenyra opens her mouth, closes it, and then buries her head in her hands. Beside her, her husband sighs deeply.

"While we admire your loyalty to your sister," he says to Luke and Joff, "There is a time and place for such things. All three of you could have gotten seriously injured."

Their sons exchange frightened looks while their daughter's brow furrows. "I would not have let Vhagar hurt them," she says, "And besides, they only went with me once." But still, there is a guilt in her voice.

"There is nothing you could have done if she had decided to harm them, sweetling," the Princess of Dragonstone keeps her tone gentle. Vissie doesn't look happy, but dips her head in assent.

An idea forms in Rhaenyra's mind, so sudden she believes it to be a miracle. _A stroke of genius._ She is not a fool. She knows the impact a second Visenya riding Vhagar will have. "My Lord," she says to her husband, "Will you take our sons and settle them down for bed? I have something I wish to discuss with our daughter." Laenor eyes her for a moment, gaze curious, but eventually nods.

"We must speak later," he whispers before he goes. She nods in acknowledgement, he kisses her cheek and Vissie's forehead and leaves them with Luke and Joff in tow.

" _Mu_ _ñ_ _a?"_ her daughter cocks her head. Rhaenyra smooths the hair across her brow and draws her close.

"Listen to me closely, Vissie, and listen to me well. You wish to prove Aemond wrong, correct?" Her daughter nods. "Yes, yes, I know that to be true. So. Here is what you're going to do…"

.

.

.

As Laenor requested, Rhaenyra speaks with him. He knocks on her chambers and when she calls for him to enter, he sits at the edge of her bed and balls his hands to fists, smoothing the creases along his forehead with his knuckles. "So my daughter has my sister's dragon," he says, "A dragon she could have died claiming. And we didn't know about this until it was told to us. _How could that happen?"_

"It is ridiculous," Rhaenyra agrees, "I shall have the servants and guards who looked over her dismissed by morning." She watches her husband carefully, sees the helpless rage in his eyes, and wonders how long he was bottling it up for. _Did he not wish to frighten the children?_

"I don't know how to feel about Vissie having Laena's dragon," Laenor admits. "On the one hand, I feel proud. So proud. My daughter, claiming the most powerful of the dragons. On the other, I feel as if it was too soon. Laena has only been dead a year."

 _If she had not been so swift to claim Vhagar, Aemond might already be riding her,_ Rhaenyra thinks waspishly. Then shame floods through her at the thought. She is relieved, she realizes, that the Blacks have not lost a major asset. She is relieved that her half-brother and his wretch of a mother do not control the most powerful of the dragons. She has already devised a plan-

"Children often do not consider these things," Rhaenyra says, just to distract herself, "And as intelligent as she may be, you know it is the Father's honest truth that she is still very much a child. Whatever pushed Vissie to Vhagar, her intention was never to bring Laena dishonor." This conversation is too reminiscent of the _last_ time something of Laena's had moved to other hands too quickly, and it makes her squirm.

"You are right," Laenor sighs, "You are right. I should not be so quick to judge." He stands, squeezes her hand, and says:

"I am spending the night with the children tonight. You are free to join us."

Rhaenyra hesitates for a moment, thinking of what Alicent and her Greens will say, before remembering the terror she felt earlier. Before remembering Laenor is just as miserable as her. She smiles tiredly.

"Give me a few minutes to change out of this dress. We can go together."

.

.

.

It is time. As the sun rises steadily and Rhaenyra mounts Syrax, her hands are clammy and sweat drips down her back. Laenor climbs upon Seasmoke, and Rhaenys upon Meleys. Both mother and son are frowning at her, and she winces.

"You should have told us of this plan of yours ahead of time," her goodmother hisses quietly, and her son voices his agreement.

"I formed it last night, and it is too late now to go back," the Princess of Dragonstone whispers, "My apologies will have to suffice." A distance away, Aegon is readying Sunfyre, who is now old enough to ride, and Helaena saddles Dreamfyre. Daemon is already circling overhead upon Caraxes.

When Father heard Rhaenyra had felt so terribly about the night before, how she'd wanted to put all of it behind her and make amends on dragonback, he'd leapt at the opening he'd seen. Now Luke and Joff and Daeron are sitting by a fire with Baela and Rhaena, Arrax, Tyraxes, and Tessarion curled beside them.

"Where is the Princess Visenya?" Alicent Hightower inquires. Her tone is light but her eyes glint with malice, and Rhaenyra bristles.

"She was not feeling well," she replies stiffly, "And so the Maester deemed it important for her to stay in bed."

The Queen smiles smugly, and Aemond says, "I suppose she hasn't got a dragon after all." Luke and Joff bolt to their feet, and Baela is swift to follow. Rhaena scowls.

 _ **You**_ _don't have a dragon!_ Rhaenyra rages.

"Aemond, enough!" Father snarls, his features twisting, and she watches in satisfaction as her half-brother flinches back.

"Let us fly," she says, and snaps Syrax's whip. The wind rushes through her hair and snaps at her cheeks, and she laughs. Laenor and Rhaenys follow her lead and so does Helaena. It takes Aegon another moment, but then he's aloft as well.

Rhaenys and Meleys surge up to meet Daemon and Caraxes. Laenor keeps Seasmoke beside Rhaenyra. Helaena shrieks with glee as Dreamfyre flips and twists in the air, and Aegon urges Sunfyre to do the same. Rhaenyra frowns as their party begins to split. _I need them all here. I need everyone to bear witness to this_.

Luckily, Rhaenys seems to have the same idea. Gently, she begins to corral Rhaenyra's half-siblings back closer to her. Servants and courtiers alike cheer from the ground, voices filled with fear and awe at the sight of the lords of the skies.

Then, a deafening roar cuts through the air.

The Princess of Dragonstone hides a smile.

Everyone turns to where it came from, and then the yard goes silent. Green-and-bronze scales flash as an enormous beast, larger than any of the other dragons, surges towards them, form rapidly growing. Vhagar's shadow covers countless people, and as she throws her head back, her curled horns, combined with the sight of the red scales of Caraxes above her, make the image of two sickles against a backdrop of blood.

Vissie's hair is braided like her namesake's, and she wears no Velaryon colors today, only the red-and-black of House Targaryen. She looks like the first Visenya come again in her riding leathers, with Luke's dagger at her hip and a silver circlet upon her brow and the sigil of House Targaryen emblazoned on her saddle, not like a little girl riding a dragon too fierce for her.

As murmurs break out amongst the highborn and baseborn alike, Rhaenyra finally allows a grin to steal across her face. _Well done,_ she thinks. Raising her head up, her eyes meet her daughter's. They gleam with triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I know this was a short chapter again. I have a lot going on in my life with school and family, and I had to rewrite this chapter like three times until I was finally satisfied with it. We have about two-to-three chapters left till a time jump. It's only a couple years, so don't worry: the Dance doesn't kick off right after this. That'd be a pacing nightmare.


	12. Lucerys

Luke is staring in utter awe at Vissie when he hears a rage-filled scream sound through the air. Turning to see where it came from, he finds Aemond, hands balled into fists and face red with anger striding towards his sister as Vhagar lands. Luke starts to move, and Joff follows him.

"You have no right!" Aemond shouts, "Vhagar is a _Targaryen_ dragon! Vhagar was supposed to be _mine_!"

Vissie glares and Vhagar growls lowly. Luke's sister slides from dragonback and marches right up to their uncle. "My _mu_ _ñ_ _a_ is a Targaryen, you little idiot," she snaps, "And my Aunt Laena rode Vhagar before me. You're just angry _you_ didn't claim her fast enough."

Baela snickers, and Aemond snarls. Luke and Joff slide into place on either side of their uncle. Baela trails behind them. Aemond stiffens when he realizes that, between Vissie who has his front, Luke who has his right, Joff who has his left, and Baela who has his back, he is completely surrounded. From over his shoulder, Luke sees his sister grin sharply.

"Let it go, Aemond," Vissie says. Their uncle's eyes move to the dagger at her hip.

"Or what?" he asks, "You'll stick me with that toothpick of yours?"

Luke watches as his sister's face darkens. Her brow furrows and her lips pull into a thin line, and her jaw clenches. Before he can act- either to help her beat Aemond into the ground or to comfort her if she's upset- someone grabs at him and throws him across the grass. He spits out dirt and seethes, stumbling back up, and Baela howls and throws herself at his attacker.

The man is dressed in the white cloak of the Kingsguard. He's tall and broad, with black hair that falls a few inches beneath his chin and pale green eyes. His nose is long but crooked and his lips are back pulled into a sneer as he shakes Luke's cousin off of him. She goes flying and lands a few feet away from him. The Princess of Dragonstone's eldest son tries desperately to remember his name. _He looks familiar._

The sound of boots and clanking armor emerges, and Luke looks up to see Ser Lorent Marbrand beside him, sword half drawn from its sheath.

" _What is this?"_ Mama roars. She's still on Syrax's back, urging her dragon back to the ground, Papa hot on her heels and Grandmama is already there. "Who are you to attack my blood in _my_ domains?" Then she catches sight of the man's face and goes pale and red all at once.

"Ser Criston," Papa snaps, "I hope you have a good reason for attacking my son and niece." He sounds calmer than Mama on the surface, but he's already climbing down from Seamsoke's back, his strides quick. Mama follows a few feet behind. Caraxes' roar sounds in agreement, and Uncle Daemon leaps from his saddle, Dark Sister in hand.

"I am not a godly man, Cole," he says, "But I swear that I shall cut you to pieces for this." He takes a stance beside Ser Lorent, and the sound of steel being drawn is piercing. Uncle Daemon snarls, but he is forced still by the hand of Mama's Kingsguard and the hisses around him.

"I have just cause," Ser Criston says cooly, "For it seems the children at fault here are _yours._ They surrounded Prince Aemond after he confronted Princess Visenya about claiming a Targaryen dragon, and threatened to stab him."

"Lies!" Vissie protests, "He's lying, _Kepa!_ I _never_ said I'd stab Aemond!"

"You still trapped him so he couldn't run." This time the Queen interjects. Luke looks to his grandpapa, who is standing beside her, and flinches back at the look on his face. He'd thought he'd been angry last night, thought that'd be the most upset he'd ever see him, but the King is even worse now. His expression is unreadable and his eyes are cold, and Luke can't tell where he stands.

"Your Grace," Ser Criston turns to Grandpapa, "Would you take the word of a girl child over the word of the Lord Commander of your Kingsguard?"

Something in the King snaps.

"You have some nerve, Cole," he snarls. "You attack my grandson and niece, and then excuse your actions by saying my granddaughter threatened my son with violence after he very clearly provoked her."

"My love," the Queen protests, "Whatever Aemond said, there was no reason for the other children to surround him. And he was right- Vhagar has been out of Targaryen hands for too long."

"Visenya is my heir's daughter, the eldest of my eldest. She bears a Targaryen name and Targaryen blood on _both_ sides, from both her mother _and_ her father. Her aunt rode Vhagar before her. She has _every right_ to the dragon! Do not argue with me otherwise!"

The Queen reels back, as if struck. "So you would let your grandchildren run about like savages, harming everyone who wounds their pride?" She tries again and Luke bristles. Standing, he says:

"If Aemond wasn't such an utter _prick_ , maybe we wouldn't have had to get angry!"

Gasps ring out across the yard and he puffs out his chest. He doesn't know what 'prick' means, exactly, but he knows it's bad.

"Lucerys," Grandmama's voice is sharp, "Where did you learn that word?"

He gulps. He doesn't want to tell, really, he doesn't, but her angry glower promises pain if he doesn't answer, and this is no huge secret like the claiming of Vhagar. With a shaking hand, he points to Vissie.

"Luke, you little _snitch_ ," his sister hisses.

"Visenya!" Papa sounds scandalized.

"I heard it from the guards!"

"Which-"

"This is beside the point!" Mama snaps. Then she glares at Luke and Vissie. "Though we _will_ speak of this later. Father, I demand recompense for Ser Criston's actions!"

"And I demand satisfaction for the actions of your children!"

"No," Uncle Daemon sneers, "I think you demand satisfaction for the fact that you have missed your chance to bring Vhagar over to the Greens."

There's a heartbeat of silence where everyone stares at him in horror, as if he has just said something terrible. Grandpapa takes one step to them both, trembling with rage. Then-

"What does the color green have to do anything with my brother and cousin being attacked?" Vissie's voice breaks through the tension, thick with outrage, and Mama pauses. The King freezes. The Queen grimaces.

"Nothing, sweetling," Mama says, "Nothing at all."

Her quick leap to comfort Luke's sister seems to soothe Grandpapa.

" _This,"_ he waves a hand, "Was meant to be a way to build bridges, not to burn them, but it seems that was not possible today. So here is what is going to happen: for surrounding Aemond and threatening him, Vissie, Luke, Joff, and Baela will be confined to their chambers. For provoking them, Aemond will be given the same punishment. As for you, Ser Criston- you acted in defense of my son and in opposition to my grandson. As the scale is even, you shall not be neither punished nor rewarded."

Mama and the Queen both begin to protest, but one look from the King has their mouths clicking shut.

"This is my final decision, my final ruling. I shall not be questioned on it."

.

.

.

Luke is bored out of his mind. This is the first official day of the new year, and he is locked in his chambers instead of celebrating in the main hall. The fact that Aemond is also being punished is a small comfort, but not enough to make him stop sulking.

He's lying on his bed, head hanging over the side, as Joff balances on one foot across the room. Grandpapa seems to have softened up, because he's allowing them- he and his siblings- in the same room. Baela isn't here because Uncle Daemon stormed off with her and Rhaena after Granpapa made his judgment. Vissie paces across the room, brow furrowed, and her strides are so angry he worries she'll wear a hole through the floor.

"Something isn't right," she says, "No, more than that. Something is very, very wrong."

Luke brings his head up, distracted from trying to get all his blood up to it.

"What do you think it is?" he asks. His sister frowns.

"I'm not sure. I've got to _think._ Son of a bit _-_ son of a _biscuit._ What am I missing? Everyone is celebrating- there's no reason for anything to wrong now that you and Aemond-" her eyes go wide. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh _shit."_

Luke goes from sitting to standing and Joff tenses.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he says.

His sister hunches her shoulders. "Our parents are going to kill us, but it's better than us ending up dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Vissie?" Luke is shaking, "Vissie you're scaring me."

She turns, and he flinches at the look on her face. It's full of anger and fear and something else- he thinks it's called desperation. "Come with me," she doesn't answer his question, "Do not bring anything with you. No daggers, no knives, nothing sharp. Do you hear?"

He feels cold. She takes him by the shoulders and shakes him, asking him again if he understands. "Yes," he finally replies, his hands clammy. Vissie begins opening the entrance which leads to the tunnels and Joff creeps up to him. Luke turns to look at his brother and sees the same fear he feels upon his face. As they put on thicker cloaks and tunics and trousers for the winter weather, gifts for the new year Vissie commanded them to keep close earlier, Luke hesitates. Looking to make sure his sister is still distracted, he stuffs the dagger she borrowed earlier, which is resting on the table, in between his tunic and his doublet. It brings him a small measure of comfort.

.

.

.

The three of them race out of the castle, swift but careful, and Vissie's measured steps tell Luke that by now, she knows these tunnels like the back of her hand. He shivers as the cold winter wind whistles. The cool metal of his dagger only makes it worse. He and Joff stand against the wall as Vissie bites her thumb.

"Fuck, I can barely think. Where should I go? East? West? Where did they even make their lairs again?" Luke flinches back as his sister kicks at the wall.

" _Vissie!"_ he hisses, "We've followed you this far! Now tell us what this is about!"

There's a pause.

"Aemond will try to claim a dragon tonight. We need to stop him. My guess is either Cannibal- which would be disastrous- or Vermithor, which is still very fucking bad."

Panic rises within Luke.

"We are _not_ sneaking out to find dangerous dragons! Mama and Papa will _kill us!"_ After yesterday, he does not want to face their rage again. At least, not so soon.

Then Vissie begins to run and Joff follows her and he's left gaping. Seeing no choice other than to follow, he groans and takes off after them.

.

.

.

The Dragonmont is a huge, looming volcano that takes up a large amount of Dragonstone. It's still active, with hot vents and steam rising up against the cold air. The castle is placed at the face of it, so they don't burn as fiercely, but as Luke and his siblings race deeper into the rocky landscape, it begins to feel hot. Luke wipes his brow.

His arms and legs ache as they walk, and they grow heavy. Joff's pace slows to a crawl, and Luke is hot and cold all at once and _tired._

" _Vissie,"_ Joff whines, "I don't want to do this anymore." Their sister turns back sharply, her lip curled.

"Leave then," she snaps. "You're slowing me down regardless." Without a second glance, she continues to climb. Luke and his brother exchange a look, and, after a moment, forge on.

_I hope we find Aemond already and go back soon._

.

.

.

Luke's wish comes true. As they scale the mountain carefully, a shriek cuts through the air. He raises his head and his eyes widen as he catches sight of the bronze form of Vermithor. Upon his back, draped in a black-and-red cloak, is Aemond. Vissie curses furiously, and he notices them. Circling with his dragon, he lands to the ground. Sliding out of his saddle, he grins.

"You're not the only one with a powerful dragon now," Aemond boasts. "I claimed Vermithor before you could steal him too."

Luke glares at him. "We have every right to those dragons," he repeats Grandpapa's words, "We're Mama's heirs, and we have Targaryen blood on both sides!" An ugly look crosses his uncle's face.

"You have _no right!"_ he thunders, "You're bloody _Strongs!"_

Luke stops and blinks in confusion. He knows they're strong- he and Joff are already big for their age- but he has the feeling that isn't what Aemond means. Vissie snarls and he can hear the rage in the sound. Anger begins pulsing through him as well. He can feel it in his veins, in his blood.

"Take that back," Vissie growls.

"I won't apologize to you. You're just basta-"

Luke's sister flies at their uncle, hands outstretched, and they topple to the ground. Joff cries out in alarm as Aemond rolls away and leaps back to his feet, Vissie a half-second behind him. He raises his fists. Luke's brother races to Vissie and takes a stance beside her, and he himself freezes.

Fumbling around for his dagger, he enters the fray. The metal glints against the moonlight, heavy in his hand, and as Vissie catches sight of it, she freezes. "Luke!" she screams. "Luke, what are you doing?" In that moment of hesitation, Aemond charges, knocking Joff to the ground. He aims a fist at Vissie's face and she stumbles back to avoid the blow. Luke leaps forth, swiping wildly with his dagger because now his uncle has woken the dragon. So long as he lives, _no one_ will hurt Vissie or Joff or his cousins, or even Aemon. His scream tells Aemond he's coming. His uncle ducks out of the way, spluttering a curse, and Joff grabs hold of his leg from the ground.

Then, everything happens at once.

Aemond, who can't move, kicks desperately at Luke's brother. Luke's dagger is on the way to his face, towards his eye. Vissie screams. Then, just before metal meets flesh, she flings herself in front of their uncle. Luke tries to swerve away, but can't manage it in time. Blood splatters. A pained cry rings out. And Luke stares in horror, gaze moving from the dagger in his hand to his sister on the ground, skin split open from cheekbone down to her shoulder, a pool of blood forming around her.

.

.

.

It takes all Luke and Joff have to drag her home after Aemond hisses and spits and flies back to Dragonstone. Guards find them, already speaking of his tale, so maybe he's not completely worthless, leaving Vissie to bleed out.

Luke is crying so hard he can barely see, snot and tears running down his face. Guilt twists in his chest as she groans weakly when the guards lift her up onto a horse. Her tunic is drenched, dyed crimson. Her face is pale with pain and loss of blood and her eyelids flutter lightly. He clings to her hand until a guard drags him up onto his own force, sobbing and screaming as he separates him from her.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Upon their return to Dragonstone where everyone is waiting, Mama and Papa leap from Syrax and Seasmoke, who were circling the castle, and rush to them. Grandmama is not far behind. The adults all start yelling over each other, bitter and furious words thrown back and forth, but Luke can't bring himself to care about anything besides Vissie, who is being rushed to the Maester.

 _Please, Seven,_ he prays, _Please, make her better!_

.

.

.

Vissie has caught a fever, people whisper, and her wound has been infected. As Maester Gerardys works to heal her, Luke and Joff are kept at Mama and Papa's sides all the time. Their parents give comfort and hold them and tell them everything is going to be just fine even though they're still spitting mad, but their eyes are tight and they aren't allowed to see her, and even the Queen gives them a look of pity when she thinks they aren't looking.

The King has refused to leave Dragonstone until his granddaughter has recovered, but he stays in his chambers and speaks to no one.

Servants scuttle by, afraid of Mama's and Granpapa's wrath, and Grandmama and _Kepar_ speak in hushed tones with Luke's parents.

The whole island is holding its breath to see if Vissie lives, and Luke hates it.

.

.

.

Finally, _finally_ , they're allowed to see her, but only one at a time. Luke goes first. Before he enters, Papa pulls him aside. "She's not in the best shape," he says, eyes soft, "And she'll look different than from what you remember. Don't feel too terribly about it. If she can take it in good cheer, so should you."

Luke gulps at that, hesitates as his hand hovers over the door knob, and then pushes his way through.

He nearly retches at the sight of what he's done. A long, jagged gash, cuts from Vissie's cheekbone to her neck. It keeps winding, he knows- he was there when it happened, all the way down to the bone of her shoulder. It's pink and ugly and brutal, and the stitches are obvious, wider and slightly deeper on her face before lessening from when he tried to pull away. Luke drops to his knees at her bedside.

"I'm sorry," he croaks, his throat tight, tears running down his face, "I never meant to- I never wanted to-"

A hand musses his hair and he freezes. Vissie pats his head with the arm that isn't tied up in a sling, a smile upon her face, and beckons him hesitates for a second before doing as she bids. She wraps him into a one-armed hug. "You're fine," she says, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Carefully, gently, he shifts to meet her eyes.

"How can you say that, after what I've done?"

"It was an _accident,_ Luke. You weren't _trying_ to hurt me. And besides, I owed you regardless. You stopped me from making a terrible mistake before." Her eyes glaze and he figures that's the pain talking. Kissing his sister's undamaged cheek, he leaves the room grudgingly to give her space, tenderness and guilt and relief storming within his heart.

It will take many, many years for Luke to realize she was serious about him keeping her from making a terrible mistake.

It will take many, many years for Luke to realize she meant to murder their uncle through his ambitions to claim Vhagar.

(When he finally learns the truth, he will not know if he should be horrified or curse himself for stopping her)


	13. Laenor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thanks to mrsean22 over on Spacebattles for pointing out some inconsistencies in the last chapter. Hopefully this helps. Other points, both from them and others, will be addressed as the story goes on.

Laenor's arm is heavy. Vissie's head rests against the crook of his elbow, eyes closed and breathing even. In her sleep, Laenor takes time to observe her. Her eyebrows are furrowed, even as she rests, and her fists are clenching his tunic tightly. She's laying on her side, with her left cheek facing up, so her scar is visible. Her father swallows hard at the sight of it.

 _My poor little dragon,_ he thinks, _the gods are cruel to have you endure so much pain at so young an age._

He presses a light kiss to her forehead.

"Is she asleep?" a voice asks. He recognizes it to be Rhaenyra's. He shifts to look at her.

"Aye."

His wife's eyes move to their daughter. She recoils at the sight of her. "I need to speak with you," she says, eyes glued to Vissie. "Don't wake her up."

Pulling himself from his daughter's grip, he gently puts a pillow in his place. Then, careful to keep his steps measured, he makes his way to Rhaenyra.

She takes his arm in hers, but says nothing.

They walk quietly, and he can sense her tension. He feels it in the way her arm is stiff, in the way she strides furiously; in the way her light amethyst eyes, the same color as Vissie's, are narrowed, in the way her jaw is clenched so hard he swears he can hear her teeth cracking.

They arrive at her chambers and Rhaenyra throws open the door. The hinges creak and Laenor eyes her warily.

"Now will you tell me what this is all about?" he asks. His wife pours herself a goblet of wine.

"The Hightower bitch is making her move. She's demanding our children be punished for chasing after Aemond." She hisses out the words bitterly, and Laenor assesses how much he values his life in the moment.

He comes to a decision.

"Rhaenyra," he says, "They _do_ need to be punished. They snuck out in the middle of the night to stop their uncle from claiming his birthright. They put themselves in danger. And to boot, Luke drew a _dagger_ on Aemond. If Vissie had not thrown herself in its way, can you imagine what would have happened? The Greens will already use this to their advantage-" and how it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to think of their children with politics in mind- "If Vissie had not been fast enough, things could have been far, far worse."

Rhaenyra scowls. "I will not punish Luke for swinging at Aemond. I will not punish my children for standing against Alicent's."

"Listen to yourself!" Laenor barks, grabbing hold of her shoulders. She blinks in surprise. "Seven hells! Putting aside politics for a moment, if you do not punish them, they'll continue to act recklessly and foolishly! One day, they may suffer the ultimate consequence for that. Do you want that?"

"Of course not!" she snaps. "And you know I was just as enraged by their actions as you!"

"Then why do you not put your foot down? Do you truly hate Alicent so much?"

Rhaenyra goes rigid in his grasp and her hands reach out to snatch at his forearms, and he knows he has erred. "Do not," she says quietly, and now it is _her_ holding _him_. "Do not try to invalidate my hatred of that woman. _Never_."

"Rh-"

The look on her face stops Laenor in his tracks. "Do you know what it was _like_ , growing up in thar madhouse?" she continues. "The Red Keep, full of backstabbers and betrayers, lickspittles and sycophants? That _bitch_ played me for a fool. She pretended she was better than all the others, and I, in my youthful naivety, believed her. She promised me she would be my new mother, and I accepted her. We sewed together, went hawking together, read together. She helped me with my studies and comforted me when I was upset, and I allowed myself to love her. And then _Aegon_ was born, and she showed her true colors. Suddenly, she had no time for me. She tried to convince my father to strip away my right to the throne, to give it to her precious new son, and I became an inconvenience, an enemy. I was left in the Red Keep, stranded with my only allies being my father, who was too besotted with his new wife to do a thing, and Uncle Daemon, who was off at war. I was left looking for poison in my cups and daggers in the dark and a slash in my saddles for the rest of my childhood all the way to adulthood."

Rhaenyra's grip is vice-like and pain blooms across Laenor's skin, but that's nothing compared to how his heart bleeds for her. Here in this moment, he wants nothing more than to offer her comfort. _And to kill Alicent Hightower,_ he thinks darkly.

"I'm sorry," he says, kindly, gently. "I didn't mean to dredge up old memories. Nor did I mean to say your feelings didn't matter. I was only worried for the children."

At his words, all the furious energy in his wife leaves her. She sags against him, suddenly devoid of her strength, and blows out a harsh sigh. "You are right, as much as I loathe to admit it," she mumbles, her cheek pressed against his chest. "None of my heirs can afford to grow up fools, and so I cannot allow them to get away with everything. And I would rather have them resent me this once then have them adore me all the way unto their untimely deaths."

"Then you will accept any punishment the King gives?"

She twitches. "Yes. And if he gives none, then I shall punish them myself."

"That is no easy thing to do, given your situation," Laenor says. He smiles down at her, something warm filling his chest. It takes him a moment to realize it is pride. He doesn't _tell_ her he is proud- she hates anything that could be perceived as talking down to, after all, but he thinks she senses it all the same.

.

.

.

For a moment, when Vissie had been at the Stranger's door and Luke and Joff had been inconsolable, Alicent Hightower had not seemed so bad. Laenor had seen the pitying look she'd given his sons and thought that perhaps she was not so bad after all.

Now, staring at her from across the table, he wants to strangle her.

He wants to wrap his hands around her neck until her face goes white and she feels the terror Rhaenyra grew up with. He wants to hurt her for what she has done. For how she has damaged Rhaenyra, for how she continues to push Aegon's claim to the throne, for how she demands retribution for the actions of his children. Even if he agrees on the last thing, at least with the fact that they should not get off free, he bristles at the thought of their misfortune being because of her.

Rhaenyra's hand is in his own, her grip tight, and he takes comfort in the warmth of it.

"You all know why we are gathered here," King Viserys says gruffly. "So let's just get this out of the way. Princess Visenya, Prince Lucerys, and Prince Joffrey, my heir's children, snuck out from the castle a sennight ago in an attempt to try and stop my son, Prince Aemond, from claiming a dragon. This led to an altercation after my son repeated a wicked rumor, which resulted in the maiming of Visenya when she leapt in front of her uncle to block the dagger her brother, Lucerys, had aimed at Aemond. My Queen wishes for my grandchildren to be punished for their actions. I will give my heir the chance to refute this. Others may argue as well."

It seems that Alicent's sympathy towards his children has vanished now. Mayhaps she's finally remembered just who Luke had been aiming for when he'd leapt forth with his dagger. _I am surprised the sympathy lasted this long to begin with, knowing what I do now._

Rhaenyra straightens in her seat and her hand leaves Laenor's as she smooths her skirts. He is aware that every gaze in the room is pinned onto her in this moment. "I agree with the Queen's words, Father" she says, a false smile plastered onto her face. It grows sharper as courtiers murmur in surprise. He hides a smirk. "My children acted recklessly and foolishly. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, trying to stop their uncle from claiming a mount, not bothering to bring their dragons, or at least Vhagar, to keep them safe- these were all decisions which were beneath them."

"And what of the attempted maiming of my son, your brother, over a few words?" Alicent Hightower demands. "Does that matter not a whit to you?"

Rhaenyra's smile freezes. Laenor frowns.

"Luke is a boy of five name days," he protests, "He could not have known what he was doing. 'Attempted maiming' is a rather harsh judgement to pass."

If looks could kill, he would be dead a thousand times over.

"That does not change the fact," the Queen bites out, "That he could have grievously harmed my son. I demand that the same he tried to do to Aemond be done to him."

Laenor half-rises from his seat, teeth already bared, rage burning through him, before Father's hand keeps him in place. He struggles for a moment longer, but he sends him a sharp look, and hisses at him to trust him. _Thank the Seven the children are not here to witness this._

"The boy has suffered plenty already," Father interjects. "He will have to live with what he's done to his sister for the rest of his life, and he adores that girl. His blow did not land besides."

"And I wonder what kind of heart it takes," Mother says smoothly, "For one to demand another child's disfigurement in the wake of all that has happened." Mutters break out again and Alicent Hightower's cheeks go an angry shade of red. Laenor knows they have her here. She cannot continue advocating for such a thing, not if she wants to keep face.

Silently, he thanks the King for choosing to resolve this issue publicly. If they can cast the Queen and her Greens in a bad light, if they can make her come across as cold and ruthless, it can only help Rhaenyra. As if sensing his thoughts, his goodfather's eyes narrow.

"Enough," King Viserys says. He does not raise his voice, but everyone quiets. "Aemond should not have snuck out in the middle of the night, nor should he have repeated vile rumors meant to slander my heir. For that, he shall be restricted from flying for a moon and a half. The same goes for Visenya. As Lucerys, and Joffrey cannot yet ride Arrax and Tyraxes, they will be restricted from spending more than an hour a day with them. Notice that these punishments are more or less the same as their uncle's, for though their actions were worse, they have already suffered a great deal."

With that, he rises to his feet. The entire room follows in suit.

 _That was a light punishment,_ Laenor reflects. _We shall have to make it more severe._

With Rhaenyra and Mother and Father beside him, he leaves the room.

.

.

.

Laenor puts Luke and Joff to bed that night, carefully, gently. After this catastrophe, he is painfully aware of just how fragile his children are. He kisses both of their foreheads and draws up the covers around them, smiling when he has to lightly pry himself from their grips.

"G'night, Papa," they murmur sleepily, eyes already drifting shut. He watches them for a moment longer, these dark-haired sons of his, before catching a snippet of a conversation in the room across from them.

"Tell me a story about Grandmother Aemma, _Mu_ _ña_ ," Vissie is saying. Laenor peeks through the gap between the open door and the doorframe. Rhaenyra is sitting on their daughter's bed, arm wrapped around her shoulders, her expression colored by surprise. Then her eyes soften.

"My mother was a kind woman with a gentle soul. She was generous and pious, and when I was little, she used to carry me in her arms everywhere…"

Laenor watches, his lips curled upwards, as his wife tells tale after tale of her mother to Vissie. He watches until they nod off together, until their breathing evens and their eyes close.

Then he walks to them, blowing out the candle beside them and takes a pillow and blanket the boys aren't using and settles in for the night with his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt guilty about not getting around to updating on Wednesday so I decided to just post this chapter a day early. After this, it's back to regular Saturdays.


	14. Bello

The water of the Narrow Sea is icy and freezing at this time of year, and Bello shivers as it rises up to slosh against the deck of the fisherman's boat he journeys with. He is dressed in a heavy tunic and a wolf fur cloak, with socks of thick wool and high boots, but the cold bite of winter, combined with the wet climate, chills him to his very marrow.

"By the gods, it's freezing," Breo says, teeth chattering. Bello hums in agreement. "Remind me of why we're here again?"

"A man and his apprentice are here because the son of the Lord of the Tides has requested their service, and a reward has been promised." His nephew folds his arms over his chest and frowns deeply.

"We are not vagabonds, uncle. We do not need to go searching desperately for coin. You were a sword to the Sealord of Braavos, once."

"Yes," Bello replies, "But a man would remind his sister's son that _was_ is not _is_ , and _once_ is not _now_." Breo flushes and the red of his cheeks clashes against the dark blond of his hair. The boy is remembering just _why_ he no longer serves the Sealord, Bello can tell. Breo's jaw clenches and his eyes narrow and his hands curl to fists.

"The coin must be good then," he snaps. "What exactly are we doing?"

Bello places his thumb and index finger against his chin and smiles. "A man and his apprentice are teaching a princess how to dance."

.

.

.

Laenor Velaryon is a handsome man, with thick silver-white hair and violet eyes and an aquiline nose accompanied by high cheekbones and bowstrung lips. He's dressed in white silks and a sea-green doublet, the fabrics hanging loosely off of his lithe frame. His boots llook soft and not at all like the hard, fur-trimmed leather suited for winter. A cloak is draped over the right arm of his chair, but he has no need for it with the giant hearth in his solar.

Parchments are stacked in neat piles across a mahogany desk, along with a spare bottle of ink and quill. As light from the brazier beside him flickers, shadows stretch along the contours of his face. There are bags beneath his eyes.

When Bello and Breo are announced, he continues scribbling something down on a roll of parchment. A long moment passes. The movements of his wrist are frenzied and his shoulders are stiffly set, and Bello is beginning to think they've caught him at a bad time. Breo shifts with discomfort.

"Ser," Bello says, after it becomes clear that Ser Laenor either did not hear them enter or is willfully ignoring them, "It is an honor to meet someone so esteemed."

The man jumps at the sudden sound, knocking ink across what he was working on. "Damn!" he spits, dabbing at it with the hem of his sleeve. "Seven hells!"

Angry eyes turn to them and Bello winces. "A man apologizes for that inconvenience," he forges on, "But he has been brought here to teach a princess, and wishes to meet her."

Bello frowns. "A princess was praised highly by a lord's messengers, and a man has travelled a long distance and spent much coin to meet her."

Ser Laenor runs a hand across his face. "We are not saying you can _never_ teach her, just that you cannot _now_. If you have an issue with that, you can speak with my wife."

"And recompense?" Breo demands. "The _promise_ of coin will not feed us or clothe us."

Bello glares sharply at his nephew.

"You may have room and board at Dragonstone and Driftmark until the Princess Visenya is deemed fit to be ready to learn," Ser Laenor replies smoothly. There is an undercurrent of irritation in his voice. Bello _knows_ that aristocracy, especially _Westerosi_ aristocracy, are fickle creatures, so he takes action before his sister's son loses his head.

"A man will take a lord's advice," he says, "And go to his wife. He thanks him for the room and board."

"Wait outside and I'll have a servant bring you to her."

When he hears that, he bows quickly and leaves the room, dragging Breo with him.

.

.

.

"What was that?" he demands once they're just out of earshot. "Does an apprentice have a deathwish?" His nephew scowls.

"I want to do something with my life, uncle. Training a princess, training the daughter of _the heir to the Iron Throne,_ that is something to live for, something to be proud of. I can bring honor back to my family-"

"And an apprentice is upset because he does not know when he can begin." Bello sighs. "A man understands. It was his blood that was disgraced as well."

Breo opens his mouth to say something else when a servant approaches. "Are you Bello the Braavosi?" he asks. Bello nods. "Excellent. Ser Laenor has instructed me to present you to Princess Rhaenyra. If you'll follow me…"

As they begin to walk, Bello holds an arm out to stop his nephew. "An apprentice will stay behind and let his temper cool," he instructs. Breo glares down at his feet but nods grudgingly. He smiles in approval.

Then he's off to meet the heiress to the Iron Throne.

.

.

.

The servant leaves just as they reach the Princess of Dragonstone's solar, obviously busy. Before he goes, he points to the door and says, "That's it." Bello thanks him. He makes his way to the spruce door, distinctly uncomfortable. He is painfully aware of where he is, of who built this place. When he'd been a child, he'd grown up on tales of the horrors of the Valyrian Freehold, had sobbed and spat and hissed, and cursed the Dragonlords of old. Now he's here, in a stronghold they created, and it makes his chest twist up into knots.

Then he hears something from the either side of the door and he freezes.

"You… me…" a man's voice says. The noises are muffled, so, against his better judgement, he inches closer. "I _know_ you do."

"Except I _don't_." This time it's a woman replying. "It happened once and it was a _mistake_."

"Happened once?" The man scoffs. "'Twas I who took your maidenhead, Rhaenyra. You gave it to _me_ , not to Criston Cole, not to Harwin Strong, but _me_. Once upon a time, I reckon you even loved me."

A moment of silence passes and Bello gets the distinct feeling that he is not supposed to be hearing this.

"The last time I gave myself to you, Daemon," the woman- Rhaenyra- says lowly, "We brought dishonor to Laena, my best friend and your wife, and that nearly destroyed my family. I almost lost Laenor, and in one fell swoop I could have lost Corlys and Rhaenys as well. The one good thing to come out of it all was Aemon, and even then-"

"You are hesitating at the thought of _Laenor_? Do not tell me that you actually _love_ your sword swallower of a husband." Daemon laughs, but there is anger behind it. The hairs at the nape of Bello's neck stand straight up. "He whose perversion has humiliated you at every turn. The man who stole the son who should have been mine!"

"Do not insult him!" Rhaenyra snarls. Slowly, Bello begins backing away from the door. He does not need to be caught eavesdropping.

"Have you brought me here only to reject me?" Daemon demands. "Because I find it _very_ hard to believe that pillow biter satisfies you."

"He is a good man, a great friend, and an even better father. And that is all I need. I shall not risk his companionship and the safety of our children to lay with you, uncle. I will _not_. Harwin was messy enough, but if it was suspected that one of my children's sires was _you-_ "

The sound of scuffling boots drifts away from the door and Bello takes his chance to completely exit the hall. Slipping through the archway, he leans against the wall 'round the corner. Daemon catches something he can't hear, and his niece- Bello grimaces at that- replies with a fierce, " _Go, uncle!"_

A few moments later a tall man with silver-gold hair and dark violet gaze is storming past him. Their eyes meet for half of a second, and Bello feels a chill run down his spine. He'd _known_ whom the Daemon and Rhaenyra of the solar were, but putting a name to a face after overhearing high treason is a nerve wracking thing. _Don't catch on that I know,_ he thinks desperately. _Please, don't catch on that I know._

Then the moment is over and the Rogue Prince forges past him, strides quick and angry, and he sighs with relief. Then he wonders how he is going to make his case to the Princess of Dragonstone after _this_.

.

.

.

Rhaenyra Targaryen is not an ugly woman. She is stout and thick of waist and bosom, but she is not unappealing, and in the structure of her face, Bello can see remnants of old beauty still lingering. If Daemon Targaryen truly has affection for her, he can see why he would be so stung by her rejection.

As he bows at the waist, he keeps a straight face. He will show no hints that he overheard her prior conversation, he thinks firmly. "Greetings, Your Grace," he says. "A man is Bello of Braavos, and he has been brought on to teach a princess how to dance, if he is correct?"

The Princess of Dragonstone rubs at her temples, as if she's trying to soothe a headache. "Yes," she replies, "But my daughter was recently stabbed by a dagger, and she has been permanently disfigured because of it. With everything that has happened, my husband and I are reluctant to teach her how to use sharp objects, as are her grandparents. At least for the moment."

Bello chews the inside of his lip. "Water Dancing is not solely a physical practice," he says. "If it pleases Your Grace, a man and his apprentice could hone her mind, first, giving the girl time to recover."

Rhaenyra pauses. Frowning, her eyes narrow in thought. "That… could work. It is imperative that my daughter learn how to defend herself after this, but to do so so soon would be a mistake. If you could ease her into it…" Bello waits patiently as she drifts back into contemplation. "You have a sennight," she decides.

"Begging pardon?"

"You have a sennight to show me how you can train the Princess Visenya without using blades. Her arm has just been freed from her sling, so you have my permission to do basic things such as stretches and meditations as well. Do you think you can do it?"

Bello straightens his back and squares his shoulders. Instinctively, his feet shift and he drops into a loose stance. He smiles broadly. "A man _knows_ he can."

.

.

.

That night, as he and Breo settle into the rooms that were prepared for them, he warns his nephew to not go too heavily on the wine. "Why not?" Breo complains.

Bello gets up from his chair and sets out his clothing for tomorrow. Once it's set up, he turns back to his sister's son and smiles. "An apprentice wanted to prove himself," he replies, "And now he has a chance to. Upon the order of the Princess of Dragonstone, he and his master will begin teaching the Princess Visenya how to dance."

Breo whoops and grins so widely Bello has to return the look. "When?" he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"The princess meets with them on the morrow, after she breaks her fast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to Leonie over on Spacebattles for helping me get the kinks out of this chapter. Also I've decided to split this chapter into two, so even though I said the timeskip would be next chapter, it won't be.


	15. Bello

The morning they are set to meet Princess Visenya, Bello and Breo rise early to make themselves more presentable. For the longest time, Bello's only donned worn tunics and cloaks and thick trousers. Today, he wears thick trousers still, but he switches into boots which only reach his calf, and he shaves his beard so it looks less shaggy. As he stands beside a small bason, a little mirror propped up against the bedpost, short, black hair falls to the floor. He puts soap beneath his arms and sniffs to see how bad it is. _Acceptable._

Drawing clothes from one of his satchels, he takes out an old doublet along with a white tunic. The former isn't crumpled, for it was folded neatly, but the creases are evident as Bello lays it out across the bed. It's black, with grey slashed across the sides like stripes that don't meet, and made of satin. He runs his fingers along the soft material for a moment. "It has been a while since a man has worn something as well made as this," he murmurs to himself.

He puts the tunic on, and the doublet over it, and sits down on the bed to lace up his boots. Then he takes his sword and places it at his hip. Taking a sip of wine, he looks to Breo and nods in approval. His nephew's dark blond hair is combed and tied back by a loose ribbon. He is dressed in a black doublet simpler than Bello's on, with a grey tunic underneath and black trousers. His sword already rests at his hip. All in all, he looks presentable. Not like some powerful, important lordling, but that is not what he is in the first place.

"Where are we meeting?" Breo asks.

Bello checks the note he received last night.

"A man and his apprentice shall meet the Princess Visenya before she begins her lessons. Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra shall have servants show the way to the will arrive early with food, so we may break our fasts."

.

.

.

The servants guide them through winding halls that never seem to end, and Bello thinks Dragonstone is more like a maze than anything else. Buttered bread, cheese, and goat meat are in his stomach, and he licks his lips in remembrance. It was a good meal, not gruel or stale bread or anything of that sort, and generous in quantity as well. If the Princess of Dragonstone and her husband continue this, he thinks he will be very happy here indeed.

At last, they arrive to the courtyard. It is not as cold as yesterday, but there is still a chill in the grass is covered by frost, the trees are without their leaves, and the bushes are a yellow color. Bello shivers.

Five other forms are evident. Two are obvious- Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra, and, his mind working quickly, he thinks that the other three, one with a silver-gold head and the other two with brown heads- must be their eldest children. Bello bows and draws to a stop. Breo follows in suit.

"Ah, you're here," Ser Laenor says. His wife beckons them to rise. His eyes flit to Bello's face and then sweep across his frame, assessing him. "You clean up well."

He nearly flinches at the sight of Princess Visenya. She has her mother's silver-gold hair and amethyst eyes, has her nose and her cheekbones and the shape of her mouth, but there is one key difference. The poor girl's scar is a terrible thing. The line (and it is more like a gouge) begins at her left cheekbone and draws closer to her mouth before drawing sharply down to her chin, and possibly below. It is hideous, and though he does not think it immediately makes _her_ the same, he has spent enough time in Westeros to know that that is all anyone will focus on for the rest of her life.

_Poor child._

To the right and left of Princess Visenya are two boys who can only be Princes Lucerys and Joffrey, with brown hair, brown eyes, and pug noses. They are tall for their ages, and they look strong. They also look nothing like either of their parents.

"Your Grace," Bello says, "It is an honor to see you again. My princess, my princes, it is an honor to meet you."

Princess Visenya looks at him, her eyes narrowed before they spark with recognition. "You are the men from the fair in Spicetown!" she says excitedly. He nods. Then she turns to her father. "Oh, thank you, _Kepa!"_

Ser Laenor smiles.

Prince Lucerys frowns. "What men?" he asks. His sister grins, but it looks a tad forced. "Water Dancers, _Valonqar_."

The prince goes pale. "Aren't they fighters?" he says. "Why are you glad Papa brought you fighters?"

Princess Rhaenyra kneels beside him, decorum set aside in this moment, and Bello feels like an intruder. He twitches uncomfortably. "Vissie is learning how to fight, Luke," she says gently. Prince Joffrey clings to his sister's hand.

"She has me!" he says. "I can protect her!"

Bello notices he did not include Prince Lucerys in that sentence and feels even more awkward. Ser Laenor catches his eye. "Leave us," he says curtly, though his gaze is distracted and the Braavosi thinks he didn't mean to sound like that, "We'll call for you when we've settled the children down."

Grateful, and spying his chance to escape, Bello bows and walks away swiftly, acutely aware that it may look like he's running.

.

.

.

It is a good while later when Bello and Breo are summoned again, but they do not go to the courtyard. Instead, they go to Princess Rhaenyra's solar. Princess Visenya sits in a chair beside her mother, and her father is speaking with her quietly, eyes soft, as they enter the room.

"Master Bello! Master Breo! It's good to see you. Will we begin sparring immediately?" Princess Visenya asks. There is curiosity in her tone, but a trace of vulnerability as well, and her hand drifts to her cheek. Even though she is excited, Bello realizes, she is still afraid.

_This might have just gotten harder._

"No," he replies. "A man has made a deal with a princess's mother, and that is that he must teach her without her using weapons for the time being."

Her brow furrows even as her shoulders relax. "How will I be learning, then?" she asks. Bello can feel the weight of her parents' eyes settling on him.

"To begin with," he says, "A princess will practice observation. To dance, one must have an attention to detail, an eye for the smallest thing. For the first day, a man has thought it would be a good idea to spar against Breo, his apprentice. A princess shall watch, and then, after the duel, shall be questioned on simple things, such as a dominant hand, for example."

"But she won't be sparing physically, yes?" Princess Rhaenyra asks. It sounds more like a command.

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"Good."

She still sends her Kingsguard to observe.

.

.

.

The good thing about Bello and Breo's clothing today is that while it looks good enough, it can still be used in a spar. Bello's doublet holds personal significance to him- a reminder of a different time- and so he takes it off and places it on the ground. They are using a large room which has been cleared of any and all furniture besides a chair and small table for Princess Visenya as their sparing room. It's too bloody cold to be outside right now. Ser Lorent Marbrand watches a distance away.

"I'll beat you this time, Uncle," Breo says.

Bello rolls up his sleeves, for he knows it's going to get hot once they begin, and grins at his nephew. "A man doubts that."

Drawing their blades, they check to make sure their new student is paying attention.

She is.

Bello's entire body is taught, like a bowstring. His toes curl and he flexes his fingers and he allows a grin to steal across his face. This, the thrill of the fight, will never grow old. In his thirty-six years, there has never been anything else like it. Blood roars through his ears. Then his eyes meet Breo's, and an unspoken message passes between them.

His nephew shifts his weight. He takes a step and rockets forward, such is his style. Water Dancing is as much showmanship as actual combat, a refined and violent artform and real carnage all at once, and Breo is an aggressive performer. Bello side steps easily, dodging the blow, but his apprentice recovers just as swiftly. Instead of stumbling and leaving his back open, he catches himself and spins on the ball of his feet. Eyes narrowed, he advances again. Feigning to the right, he smoothly draws his arm back and goes left. This time, Bello is forced to deflect.

The sound of clanging steel rings out.

"You're getting old, Uncle," Breo taunts.

"An apprentice really should save his breath," Bello retaliates. He blocks a few more blows and weaves around some others, outclassing him in footwork. Breo scowls, and he knows frustration is getting to him. His sister's son is stronger than him, younger, and maybe even faster, but Bello has been at this longer than he, and experience, as well as natural grace, is on his side.

He has gotten tired of defending.

Bello takes a step back, weight evenly balanced between the foot set forward and the foot set back. As Breo advances again, sending flurry after flurry, blow after blow, he waits. And waits. And then, when he sees an opening, satisfaction works its way through his chest. Shooting forward, he takes Breo by surprise. Barely able to parry, his nephew stumbles back. He recovers quickly, but it's too late; Bello smells blood in the water.

_It's time to get serious._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, I officially give up with announcing my pacing to y'all. Trying to cram this arc into two chapters just wasn't gonna work, and the timeskip is not happening too soon.
> 
> I know this chapter was painfully filler-ish, but I hope I made up for it by those little tidbits about how the Aemond incident has affected the kids, and the action scene at the end.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm 'meh' at action scenes on a good day and shit on a bad one. I hope it wasn't too cringe lol.


	16. Laenor

As Laenor approaches the room where his daughter's teachers are sparring, he hears the sound of good natured quips and whistling steel. Quickening his pace, he enters the room. Walking to Vissie, he settles beside her.

"How are things going?" he asks. She sends him a frustrated look.

"Ssshhh, _Kepa_ ," she says. "I'm trying to focus!"

Laenor bites back a laugh and turns his attention to the duel unfolding before him.

Breo is on the offensive, it seems. He advances swiftly upon Bello, sending blow after blow, but that is not to say he outmatches his uncle. In fact, he cannot land a decent strike. Bello side steps and weaves around him, and his grace astounds the heir to High Tide. They are moving swiftly, and for a good fifteen seconds, Breo's arm is a blurr. Despite his speed, his uncle continues to evade him.

Bello sports an exhilarated grin. He doesn't look tired or worn, though a light sheen of sweat has broken out across his forehead, and his brown eyes blaze. It is obvious he is not outclassed in this match, and Laenor wonders why he does not go ahead and attack yet. If his goal is to wear his nephew down, to frustrate him, he wagers his plan is working well already.

Then, Breo feigns to the right, and then swiftly draws his arm back to jab left, and Bello is forced to parry. The sound of clanging steel rings out. Laenor watches as the blonde-haired Braavosi grins smugly. "You're getting old, Uncle!" he taunts.

The heir to High Tide swears he can see Bello's eye twitch. He responds with a gruff suggestion to save his breath, and they're back at it, with Breo, again, on the front foot.

But then something changes.

Laenor isn't sure what it is, but suddenly, Bello's expression goes from exhilarated and focused, if somewhat irritated, to satisfied. He bursts forward with an energy not seen before, and now it's _him_ gaining ground.

Breo is faster and stronger, by the looks of it, but Laenor notices that his uncle is more agile. He thrusts once, twice, and side steps before feigning up and then jabbing at his nephew's side. The tide has shifted, and Breo's expression grows increasingly more nervous, but it is the look _Bello_ dons that catches Laenor's attention.

Here, with his blade in hand and his body coiled while his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away, he could be the Warrior himself. Sweat drips down his brow, down his throat, and the lean, sinewy muscle of his chest and forearms ripples. Breo stumbles, and Bello lunges. The tip of his blade catches an arm and blood is drawn.

And, _oh_.

With blood splashed against his cheek and his bared teeth looking like fangs and his dark curls mussed, Bello is positively _feral._ He and his blade are one in the same- he's a storm, a torrent, a force of nature. As he pushes his nephew to his last legs, he looks as if he belongs in a great song. He is a beast and a god and a hundred other things all at once as he forces Breo to his knees, blade pressed against his Adam's apple, and Laenor is _enthralled._ As Bello glares down at his nephew, chest heaving, a line of sweat slides down his cheek to the curve of his throat. The heir to High Tide follows it, watches it trail further until it pools at his collar bone, and his heart skips a beat.

"Does an apprentice surrender?" Bello asks. Breo grunts in assent, and he flops onto the floor beside him. Gradually, his features smooth back out until he's the calm, amicable man from before.

Laenor wonders how it is that this man and the one he saw just a moment ago are the same person. It seems impossible. Bello rises slowly, turning to approach Vissie and himself, and the fabric of his tunic rises up. The skin of his stomach flashes and the heir to High Tide averts his eyes quickly, feeling, foolishly, like a boy again.

Bello sports an easy smile as he makes his way over, the lines around his eyes crinkling. He bows to Laenor before turning his attention to Vissie. "What did a princess discover?" he asks. Vissie looks down at the parchment before her.

"You're right-handed," she says, "And Breo is the opposite. He's stronger than you, but you're more agile. I'm not sure who's faster." She goes on with a few more things. Bello rubs at his chin.

"These are not bad observations for a novice," he says, "But there is room for improvement. A man, his apprentice, and a princess shall work on this together."

Laenor can see his daughter's fists clench and winces in sympathy- she so hates imperfection. He pats her shoulder in solidarity, and says, "It seems you did well, little one. Take your victories where and when you can."

Bello glances at him at that and nods approvingly. A bit of pride ignites within him.

.

.

.

That night, Laenor and Rhaenyra dine with the children. Vissie's mood has lightened, though she still looks irritated, and Luke and Joff eye her warily. Aemon is here as well, attended to by a nanny.

"Give me my son," Laenor says to her. She curtsies and does as he bids. As the weight of the little prince settles into his arms, he looks down. His son- his _third_ son, he thinks fiercely, _not_ his first- gurgles happily upon seeing him, and tiny little fists wave about. Laenor smiles back. He has been busy helping with Rhaenyra's duties upon Dragonstone as of late. As the Lady of her seat, she has both a lord's responsibilities _and_ his wife's, and it wears on her. So recently, he has taken it upon himself to prove a worthy consort and help her. That means, in turn, that he has had less time to be with the children old enough to walk about and visit him, much less his youngest.

Rhaenyra, who is sitting next to him, smiles, likely thinking about the same thing. They wait for a moment as the meals are brought out, and then Laenor reluctantly returns Aemon to his caretaker.

The conversation between Rhaenyra, Luke, Joff, and himself had not been easy. They had been alarmed by the prospect of Vissie using blades, had almost turned on one another in the process. Laenor winces at the memory. Because of this, his wife thought it important for them to have supper together, to see that their sister was perfectly fine, and that they should not fight.

As it stands, the boys are at her side, Luke on her right and Joff on her left, and both stick to her closely. Laenor's heart hurts as his daughter curls into the both of them as much as she can. Whether she is trying to comfort them, herself, or both, he does not know.

Rhaenyra opens her mouth, and before she can say anything, the heir to High Tide grips her hand in his. "Say nothing of the training," he advises lowly, "The wounds are too fresh, I think. Simply let them see that she's alright, and have them come to their own conclusions."

His wife pauses for a moment, lips pursed, considering. Then she nods slightly in acknowledgment.

And so the supper passes in a fragile sort of peace. Luke is not curling into himself and Joff is not spitting and Vissie is not helplessly trying to help both her brothers at the same time, and Laenor considers that to be an improvement from before.

.

.

.

Laenor sees Bello the next day before Vissie's next lesson. It's early in the morning, and he's been restless, so he walks about the castle while few people are up. The Great Hall is already accessible, so he enters quietly. The Braavosi is sitting in a corner with a mug of ale. His plate is loaded with cheese, buttered bread, and some goat meat, which is a usual here on Dragonstone, and as he wolfs down his food, the heir to High Tide wonders how such a wiry man can eat so much.

Bello notices him quickly and moves to rise.

"Please," Laenor says, "It's too early for such things. Worry not about them." The other man smiles.

"Would a lord like to sit?" He points to a place on the bench beside him. Laenor accepts the offer and he shifts to accommodate him.

Here in the flickering candlelight, he catches a better view of Bello. _He is not the most dashing man to ever walk the earth,_ Laenor thinks, _but he is handsome all the same._

He has high cheekbones which are prominent against his pale face. His eyes, a light shade of brown that looks more like amber as the light hits them, are almond shaped, smile lines and stress lines both around them. His mouth is small but his lips are full, and they twitch upwards as Laenor's eyes dart to them. His nose, long and upturned, is crooked and slanted at a queer angle- from a break, or two, or three, no doubt- but it adds a rugged sort of charm to him, especially with his stubble.

Yes, Bello of Braavos is no god amongst men, but he is attractive all the same. The heir to High Tide's stomach flips.

"What are your plans concerning my daughter's training?" he asks. Bello places a hand against his cheek.

"A man was thinking of, for the first part of the day, telling her what to look for as he and his apprentice sparr, and then for the second taking her to the town below to have her grow acclimated to it. Then she can begin to learn how a setting helps in a battle, and a man can look for optimal places to train her in this."

Laenor hums in acknowledgement. The plan sounds good. A thought occurs to him. "Why do you speak that way?" he blurts out. Bello raises an eyebrow and he feels heat creep up his neck. He hastens to explain. "As far as I know, the Braavosi don't speak in the third person."

His companion takes a gulp of ale and then licks his lips, gathering his thoughts. "A man's father hailed from Lorath," he says after a beat of silence. "He grew up with time split between there and Braavos, and as such took upon the speech patterns. Now, it is also a way to honor a man long gone."

Laenor winces. "I'm sorry for your loss." The words sound weak. Still, Bello smiles. "There is no need for a lord to apologize." He waves a hand. "He did not know."

"You said you grew up in both Braavos _and_ Lorath," Laenor says, curiosity piqued. _I want to keep him talking._ "As a boy, I did not travel from Driftmark all that much, and even now, the furthest I'll go is King's Landing and Dragonstone. Tell me, what was it like to move so frequently, especially as a child?"

Bello's face positively lights up.

For a long while, he speaks softly, the velvet of his voice filling the Great Hall apart from a servant here and there. Laenor is perfectly content listening with rapt attention.

.

.

.

Laenor has duties he has offered to help Rhaenyra with, so when he's done conversing with Bello, he goes to the solar his wife had made for him and gets through it as quickly as he can. _Vissie will be busy,_ he thinks, _but that does not mean I cannot spend the day with my other children._ The work- some ledgers and food stores the steward has gone over and a few smallfolk issues (though those are handled mostly by the Princess of Dragonstone)- is tedious, so he makes sure to be , when he's done, he makes his way back to his chambers and pulls on clothing suitable for braving the winter weather.

As his family breaks their fasts , his wife looks at him with bemusement. "Where are you going to dress so?" she asks.

"I'm taking Luke and Joff out today. A break from their lessons, if you will. They'll play outside and wrestle and race around like regular children."

She frowns. "It is cold outside. They could catch a chill."

"They're healthy and hale," Laenor rebutts, "And the sun is out. We'll wrap them up in thick clothing and set fires for them to sit by, and they can take some time from being princelings to be boys."

"What happened to you stressing over Aemon being outside?" Rhaenyra asks this, but he can tell she's warming to the idea.

"Aemon is a babe," Laenor replies. "Luke and Joff are older and stronger."

Just a moment too late, he realizes his wording. They grimace at the same time, and he thinks about how utterly _terrible_ that sounded.

"Please, _Muña_ ," Joff whines.

"It will be good for them," Laenor whispers.

Finally, Rhaenyra cracks. "Very well," she says grudgingly. "But I shall join you." Their older boys whoop.

"Luckies," Vissie complains. They stick their tongues out at her and she kicks at their ankles. They squawk.

His wife's shoulders begin to shake at the sight and he is right there with her. They throw their heads back and laugh and laugh and laugh until the children join in and the room is filled with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have much to say about this chapter tbh. You get Targ/Velaryon family angst/cuteness next chapter from Rhaenyra, who we haven't gotten a POV in a while, so there's that. I hope to make it longer than this chapter. While it wasn't absurdly short, I dislike how I can't even seem to hit 2.5k words.


	17. Rhaenyra

As the boys prepare for an outing in the cold, Laenor and Rhaenyra take their daughter to her Braavosi teachers. Vissie, too, is bundled up, armed to face winter with thick wool socks, high boots, and several layers of tunics and trousers. A hat covers her head so only a few strands of her hair peek out, and a red-and-black scarf is wrapped around her neck.

Rhaenyra stops when they reach the gates. "You will be perfectly safe," she promises her daughter. "Laenor tells me that these Braavosi masters are brilliant, and guards shall be with you always." Vissie smiles and wraps her arms around her. The Princess of Dragonstone kisses the top of her head.

This last moon has been difficult on her, she knows. The punishments she and her brothers received were not as terrible as they could have been, but a heavier workload, barely any time to visit their dragons, a good thrashing from Rhaenys, and a lack of freedom to go where they wish has worn on them all. She has seen the bags beneath their eyes, especially Joff's.

"Your Graces." The Braavosi men bow easily. "We will take good care of her."

"I'm sure you will," Laenor says. Rhaenyra glances at him. He wears a lopsided smile, his cheeks slightly flushed, and his eyes are bright. She follows his gaze and finds Bello. Biting the inside of her cheek, she makes a note of this in the back of her mind.

"We'll be off then," Bello says. The Princess of Dragonstone nods in assent. She watches her daughter as she leaves, watches until she leaves through the gates, and sighs. Then she turns to her husband and says, "Let's go get the boys."

.

.

.

They trudge through the light layer of snow on the ground cautiously, mounted on their sturdy horses. Luke is sitting atop his father's mount, still just a bit too small for a pony, and he laughs as Laenor urges his mount forward at random times. Joff's back is pressed against Rhaenyra's own chest, and his head lols.

"Joff?" she asks. "Are you well? We can always go back."

"'M fine," he replies. "Just tired."

His mother frowns and while she does not dispute him, she draws her arms closer to her body. He will not fall from this horse under her watch. They draw to a stop around a clearing. Velaryon and Targaryen guards all around them, the Princess of Dragonstone dismounts and helps her son down with an un-ladylike grunt. He is getting heavy. Beside her, Laenor does the same with Luke.

A few servants set up fires and unpack bread and dried meat from their satchels a good distance away. That leaves Rhaenyra, Laenor, Luke, and Joff alone. She suddenly wishes she had brought Baela and Rhaena along. They would have enjoyed this, she thinks. _I'll bring them next time_.

There's a long pause. No one is sure of what to do. Then Luke reaches out and stretches up to jab at his father's side. "Catch us if you can!" he says. Then he and his brother are off and running. Laenor laughs. He takes after them, and snow goes flying.

Rhaenyra smiles at the sight. Her heart grows warm.

"I'll get you!" her husband fake-growls. Joff stumbles for a moment, sliding against the snow, and his father grabs him and hoists him up into the air, spinning him around as he giggles.

"Let me go!" he squeals. Laenor pauses.

"Do you mean that?" he asks, looking dead serious.

"Yes!"

"Well then, be careful what you wish for!" Rhaenyra's eyes widen as her husband turns sharply back to her. He takes four of five long strides, their son protesting all the way through, and throws him at her. It's not high or hard enough to truly hurt if he falls, but he shouts, "Catch!" nonetheless. Her arms go out and Joff flies into her hold just as Laenor turns around to face Luke.

Rhaenyra stumbles back. Joff groans and she looks at him, concerned. But then he raises his head and a grin has stolen across his face and he looks happier than he has in weeks, and she chuckles. Letting him wriggle out of her hold, she watches as he throws himself at his father, intent on revenge. Laenor, who is preoccupied by Luke, does not even sense his approach.

"Agh!" he cries. Laenor whips around, eyes wide, and is met with a small body pelting at his legs. Luke, taking advantage of the situation, jumps on his back. They drop to the snow in a tumble of limbs, the clearing resounding with laughter.

Rhaenyra cackles a distance away and their eyes go to her. Her husband gets a mischievous look. Her heart sinks. "No," she says. "Oh, no. Absolutely not."

"Boys," he says, unheeding, "It seems your mother thinks she can make fools of us. How about we show her how cold it really is?"

And then she, the Princess of Dragonstone, _the heir to the Iron Throne_ , is besieged by her husband and traitorous sons, shrieking all the way.

.

.

.

Rhaenyra's happiness does not last all that long. As her family eats across the blankets that have been laid out for them, a servant approaches. He whispers in her ear, "There is news from court, Your Grace," and she knows it is nothing good.

Alicent has informers upon Dragonstone, she knows. Maybe not spies, but people who keep their ears open for rumors and whose hands love the cold kiss of gold. She has the same, in the Red Keep. If one of them has deemed to contact her, it is important. She wipes her hands with a cloth and rises.

The man hands her a letter.

Laenor, who is busy entertaining their children, does not notice her step a few paces away and unfurl the parchment.

Rhaenyra goes pale at what she finds.

_Your Grace,_

_I do not know how credible the rumors are at this time, but there is talk about the Red Keep, and especially in Hightower residences, that the Queen has been pushing the King for a betrothal between your brother, Prince Aegon, and your sister, Princess Helaena. I deemed it important for you to know._

_Best wishes,_

_X_

A betrothal between Aegon and Helaena? Rhaenyra's mind races at all of the connotations of such a thing. Her hands curl to fists. Her children are Velaryon, and some are suspected bastards to boot. If they inherit, the Greens have argued, the ruling dynasty of the Seven Kingdoms will be changed, the rightful house displanted. It is one of the main reasons, apart from her sex, why Rhaenys was passsed over in terms of the succession after Prince Aemon's death. It was why, after the death of Rhaenyra's grandfather, Laenor was ignored as well, even though he was the desired male heir.

In this betrothal, Alicent is practically screaming into the world that her children are more Targaryen than Rhaenyra, for they have wed as their kind ought to, and that their children will be more worthy of the throne than her own.  
 _ **Damn**_ _her!_ The Princess of Dragonstone trembles with fury. _Damn her throughout all the seven hells!_

"Rhaenyra?" Laenor has taken note of her absence. He frowns at the look on her face. "Rhaenyra, what's wrong?"

Her lips purse. "I'll tell you later," she says, "but now I need to be alone. Enjoy the rest of your time." He hesitates for a moment. Then he nods.

She kisses their sons each on the forehead and squeezes his hand. After that she mounts her horse stomach churning with rage. "I'll see you upon your return," she promises. Then she snaps the reins and kicks her heels into the sides of her horse.

.

.

.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about now?" Laenor asks, freshly returned. He leans against the doorframe.

Rhaenyra runs a hand through her hair.

"The Hightower bitch is pushing my father for a betrothal between Aegon and Helaena," she says. His brow furrows, and she knows he has made the same connections as her.

"On one hand," he says, "That's very bad. On the other, it's better. Now Aegon can't win the support of a great house by promising to marry one of its daughters."

Rhaenyra pauses. "That's a fair point," she admits, "But this is still dangerous, and I don't know what to do about it."

Laenor thinks for a long moment. Then his eyes go bright. He snaps his fingers. "Helaena gets along famously with Vissie, does she not?"

"Aye."

"And it is safe to say that, through her, you two are close?" Rhaenyra nods. She smiles as she begins to see where he's going with this. "Write a letter to your father, then, and ask to foster her here. Alicent cannot protest without looking ungracious, and several important people were unimpressed by how she handled the incident with Aemond. Bring Helaena here, play the part of doting big sister, and steal her from the light of the capital. With her out of sight, that should buy us both some time and more of the King's favor."

"You," Rhaenyra breathes, "Are a genius."

He winks.

"I do try."

.

.

.

That night, after putting her elder children to bed and visiting Aemon, the Princess of Dragonstone writes her letter to her father. She is courteous and charming, and does her best to play the role of adoring elder sister. In all fairness, she likes Helaena most out of all of Alicent's brood. The girl gets on well with Vissie, and her brothers through that, and hers is a kind and gentle soul. Perhaps, Rhaenyra admits grudgingly, she even likes the idea of her fostering here. She never _has_ gotten the chance to know what loving a sibling is like. Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron pose too much of a threat to her, and Baelon died young. Helaena was estranged for a while, before Vissie, and now Rhaenyra sees an opportunity to reach out further, to make her family rather than just blood.

She will take it.

As she seals her letter, she pauses.

_Family._

The word echoes through her mind, and suddenly, she remembers all of the stories of her mother Vissie has been asking for.

_Family._

She remembers Aemma Arryn, recalls meeting her kin, once.

_Family._

Mayhaps she wishes to find blood besides her own immediate relatives, and Baela and Rhaena, that she can love without the shadow of Alicent Hightower looming over her.

_Family._

Rhaenyra takes another roll of parchment and begins writing a letter to her cousin in the Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter is short. I meant for it to be longer, but let's be honest, dragging shit out just makes it worse. A big thanks to Leonie for, once again, helping me work the kinks out of this chapter. I hope y'all enjoyed the political machinations haha. This is the first chapter that's really more focused on them. I'm super excited for next week's chapter! It's gonna be a blast to write, though it doesn't have all that much plot progression in terms of politicking, I think you guys will like it too.


	18. Joffrey

_Joff is dreaming again. It doesn't come as a surprise. Nowadays, all he sees behind his eyelids is Luke's dagger flashing and Vissie shoving their uncle Aemond out of the way and her screaming as blood splatters across the ground. He's used to the nightmare by now._

_This time, though, he realizes quickly, is not like the others. For one, he's taller. Stronger. As he looks down at his hands and flexes them, he notices they're larger, and have callouses too. For another, he's not in the clearing. Instead, he's standing in the nursery Luke and Vissie used when they were smaller, and the one he still goes in from time to time._

_A feminine voice fills the air, deep and rich and soothing, and Joff turns. He blinks in surprise at what he sees._

_Vissie stands before him, an infant in her hold. She's taller and older and she's holding a babe in her arms, but it's her. Her silver-gold hair is drawn back in a messy braid, and her tunic is thrown on haphazardly. There are bags beneath her eyes and her shoulders are slumped, but she holds the babe in her arms with such care and tenderness it takes him away._

" _Vissie," Joff hears himself say. His sister turns to him._

" _Joff," she replies tiredly. "It's late. You should be asleep."_

" _I could say the same thing about you."_

_She snorts but it's half-hearted, lacking any real amusement. For some reason, one that Joff can't explain, his heart twists in his chest at the sound. The babe in his sister's hold giggles at the noise. Little fists dart out from her blankets._

_Vissie smiles down at her._

_**Her? How did I know it was a girl?** _

_Joff's never met the child in his life, but something pulls him to her. Walking towards his sister, he touches the babe's cheek gently._

" _I'm leaving soon, you know," Vissie says. "So is Luke." His head snaps up._

" _What?" he cries, and there's real alarm in those words, both from the dream and not. She smiles bitterly._

" _With everything that's happened-" her mouth draws to a thin line here, and anger coils up in Joff's own stomach, even though he doesn't know what she's talking about- "We're left with no choice. Luke and I fly to the Stormlands together. Then he returns, but I go to the Vale, and then to Winterfell after that. 'Twas Kepar's idea."_

" _Wha-" Joff stumbles over his words._ _ **Why are you leaving?**_ _he tries to ask._ _ **What's happened?**_ _His tongue feels thick, though, and he can't get the questions out._

" _With us gone, you will be the oldest of_ _Muña's children. Thats means you must protect the rest of our blood, little Laena especially, but Baela and Rhaena will be there to help." Vissie puts the babe down in her bassinet and turns her full attention to him. She cups his cheeks lightly, cradling his face in her hands. For a moment, her form flickers and the face she wears is different. For a moment, he sees a girl the same age as her with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes looking back at him. As quickly as she appears, she's gone, giving him no time to react. "You are so young," she continues sadly. "Too young. But you must be strong now, do you hear? What are we?"_

" _The Old, the True, the Brave," Joff hears himself say._

" _And what do we come with?"_

_She's never asked him this before, never once, but he still feels his chin rise, his chest puff out, and his eyes flash._

" _Fire and Blood."_

_His sister grins, but it's not her anymore, it's the girl from before. The look, though, that's all Vissie. It's sharp and biting and proud, her teeth bared and her eyes narrowed, and a part of him croons._

_**Dragon,** _ _he thinks,_ _**Seahorse. Family.** _

_Then he blinks and she's gone again, Vissie replacing her. She opens her mouth, as if to speak, when a great chasm appears under his feet. It's dark and damp and cold, and it drags him under before she can say what she was going to._

" _Vissie!" he screams for her desperately. "Vissie!"_

_But there's no reply and he's falling, falling, falling…_

_._

_._

_._

_Joff lands in a heap against cold, hard ground. He groans, expecting pain, but oddly enough, he feels nothing at all. Staggering to his feet, he struggles to breathe, taking in large gulps of air. As his shoulders heave, his hands propped against his knees, he hears voices. Raising his head, he observes his surroundings._

_He's in a tent, or something similar. A cot is placed in the center of the room, a little stand beside it. Candles are placed atop it, along with a pitcher of wine. As shadows flicker against the walls, Joff catches sight of two figures._

_The first is very clearly Vissie. She looks even older than when he just saw her. She holds a cup of wine in one hand, the sleeves of a worn tunic rolled up to her elbows. Scars cut along her forearms, jagged and intersecting, and she leans against the stand on the opposite side of her bed tensely._

_The second figure, another woman, is one he does not recognize. She's tall and thin, cutting a lean figure in the dim light. Dark curls fall past her shoulders to her lower back and her arms are folded across her chest. She sits on his sister's bed._

" _Vissie!" Joff says excitedly. She does not respond. Frowning, he repeats her name. She does not even look his way. Impatient, he rushes to her, arms reaching out to grip her shoulder. Distantly, he realizes that he too has grown, for his arms are longer than before and so are his legs, and his voice is deeper._

_Joff reels back in horror when, instead of his fingers finding purchase against her shoulder, they slip through her body._

" _By the Seven-" he gasps, and then, he's forced still. His legs lock and he can't move._

" _Must you go?" the unknown woman asks. She looks at Vissie head-on, but she's trembling._

" _Aye," Joff's sister replies. With shaking hands, she tips her head back and gulps down her wine. Her cup slams against the table._

 _The woman rises from her place on the bed and walks over to her. Placing her head against her shoulder, their fingers intertwine. Joff's seen his parents do this a thousand times, seen them brush hands and kiss one another on the cheek, but this feels…_ _**different** _ _somehow. He feels like he's spying._

" _Then when you return," the other woman says, "I shall ensure you have all the best bards in the realm on hand. They shall spin magnificent tales about you, and you shall be immortalized. You shall be as famous as both our namesakes."_

_Vissie chuckles._

" _And since when have you cared for pretty songs, my love?"_

" _I do not, but I know that you like them well enough. For you, I shall ensure you have a great moniker. 'Visenya the Valiant,' mayhaps?"_

" _More like 'Visenya the Broken.'" Vissie's voice is low and bitter. "More likely than not, I shall be a broken pile of bloodied, charred flesh by the end of this."_

_Joff doesn't know what they're talking about, doesn't know why they seem so sad, but he doesn't like the sound of that. He opens his mouth, fighting to part his lips, and tries to speak, but no words come out._

" _Mmmph!" He tries again. "Mmmph!"_

_Quick as lightning, the other woman takes his sister's face in her hands. Her eyes- either dark brown or black, it's impossible to tell- are narrowed in fury. "That is not amusing, and you should not jape about such things. If you die," she hisses, "I will hunt you down through all of your seven hells. And when I find you, I shall drag you back to the world of the living, just to kill you again. Do you hear?" By the end, her words lack any real heat. Her voice breaks._

_Vissie presses their foreheads together._

" _That was in poor taste, Aly," she says. "I'm sorry."_

_The woman- Aly- says something else, but she's too quiet for Joff to hear, and his vision starts going blurry. He blinks rapidly and, finding he can move again, struggles to his sister. But it's too late and the chasm is back, and it swallows him up whole._

_._

_._

_._

_This time, Joff doesn't go anywhere right away. He's falling, wind rushing through his ears and hair. His arms are still reaching out for Vissie, fingers twitching. He screams loudly, until his throat goes raw, terror clawing through his chest._

_Is this how he dies, in the midst of some night terror? He knows it's only a dream, but it feels so_ _**real.** _

_**Seven help me! I'll do anything, just make it stop!** _

_The feeling of falling stops suddenly, and he breathes a sigh of relief._

_That relief does not last._

_Joff's eyes widen in horror as one by one, images flash through his mind. A pain forms between his eyes._

_**Vissie screaming, kicking over a chair in her rage, vowing vengeance as Luke and Muña struggle to hold her back. Vhagar roars in the distance, her fury echoing her rider's-** _

_**Muñar arriving back with only one dragon in tow, a limp body cradled in her arms-** _

_**Vissie struggling against an unknown assailant, scrabbling in the darkness as a dagger scrapes down her arms-** _

_**Muña's cry of pain as Luke paces outside her chambers, Vissie shoving them aside, soaked to the bone, sleeves rolled up as she forces herself through the doors-** _

_**Aemon demanding their sister, demanding to be at her side-** _

_**Fire lighting the sky as dragons fight tooth and claw, shrieking and roaring and crashing down to meet the earth-** _

_**Luke howling, flying after Vissie as Vhagar shoots off, becoming nothing more than a small dot across the horizon-** _

_**The green-and-bronze scales of Vhagar flashing in the light as Caraxes' ruby-red form rises up to meet her, the golden jaws of Sunfyre reaching out, the bronze form of Vermithor hurtling towards them-** _

_**Vissie screaming a scream worse than anything Joff has ever heard before as Vhagar's saddle snaps and both rider and dragon hurtle to the ground-** _

_**Luke cradling their sister lightly, her blood sticky against his hands as her murmurs words of comfort to her, begging her to please just be alive-** _

_._

_._

_._

Joff jerks awake with a gasp. Luke, who sleeps like the dead, doesn't stir. His heart is beating furiously, slamming against his chest, and he's drenched in sweat.

_Vissie._

Stumbling up, he makes his way to the door which connects their rooms. With his hands trembling badly, he can't open it.

He calls out for his sister desperately and hears her groan on the other side.

"Hold on" she grumbles.

She opens the door, her expression a mix of annoyance and concern, and he throws himself at her. They fall to the floor and he sobs against her, curling into her side.

"Vissie," he gasps, "It wasn't real, it wasn't real."

"Joff, what the fuck?" His sister runs her fingers through his hair and presses a kiss to his temple. "What happened?"

He shakes his head at the question, refusing to let her go. It's too horrible to even speak of. Her eyes soften.

"Another nightmare?"

He nods.

"C'mon then," he says, hauling him up to his feet. "Let's get you comfortable." Guiding him to her bed, they sprawl out across the mattress and pull the blankets up. Joff tucks his chin against her collarbone.

"Was it the same dream?" Vissie asks.

"... No."

She half-rises, and he can see the outline of her frown in the darkness. "No? Isn't it always the same one?"

"Not this time," he rasps. "This time, it wasn't what already happened, it was like- it was like the _future_."

There's a beat of silence.

"Joff," his sister says carefully, "You know about dragon dreams, right?"

"Yes," he mumbles.

"Well… do you think you could tell me part of what you dreamt of?" He freezes. "You don't have to," she assures him.

But talking, talking might help, and he hates disappointing her.

"There was a girl," he says quietly. "Sometimes, when you were there, she'd show up."

"And what did she look like?"

He gives her description and Vissie stiffens.

" _Fuck,"_ she breathes. "Holy shit."

"What is it?" he asks nervously. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." His sister kisses the top of his head, but she's trembling. "Don't worry about it. Shall I sing you to sleep?"

Joff doubts she's fine after that, but nods anyway.

" _High in the halls of the Kings who are gone,_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts-_

_The ones she had lost and the ones she had found_

_And the ones who had loved her the most…"_

Vissie's voice lulls him to sleep slowly, and as his eyes drift closed, the last thing Joff sees is his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it! In the spirit of the holiday, I've decided to post this chapter a day early.


	19. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So. I've been gone for a while. I had real life I had to take care of- that can't be helped- but I'm sorry for not sending word or anything. I hope for my regular update schedule should be back up soon, but even though my harder classes were last semester, this one is still shaping up to be a lot of work so we'll see. I'm trying something a bit different today as well. This chapter will be in an interlude format. Tell me if you like it or not.

_This Winter has been a harsh one,_ Jeyne thinks. With heavy snowfalls and biting cold and even more thick grey clouds than normal, patience has worn thin in the Vale and tempers have run short. Less so amongst the highborn, for they have managed to stay fed, but she sees in her smallfolk thin cheeks and protruding ribs and resentment burning behind their eyes as their lords eat well. It is a thing that happens every Winter, and she is used to it by now, but it unsettles her still. Her grip on the Vale, she knows, is weaker than she would like, even now, years after Arnold's failed rebellion. At the reminder of her beloved cousin, her eye twitches. She chews the inside of her cheek as a familiar rage makes its way through her, settling at the pit of her stomach.

She moves to get up from the bed.

"Jeyne?" Jessamyn calls sleepily. "Jeyne, go to sleep. It's too late to be up."

The Lady of the Vale offers her lover a half-smile. "Soon," she promises, extracting herself from her arms. "But not now. Rest will not come to me."

Jessamyn cracks a green eye open. She does not ask what's wrong- she's never been one for foolish questions, for asking the obvious- but instead nods. Jeyne kisses her lightly, stooping down, before lighting a candle and leaving her chambers.

She needs to walk, needs to do something productive to take the edge off of her worry. As torch lights flicker across the walls and guards bow sharply, the Lady of the Vale moves. Up and up she climbs, to her solar. The rookery is nearby, and she hears the crowing of the ravens. Jeyne stops. Tilting her head, she makes her way to them.

Most of the ravens are well rested, in one area of the room. A few others are in warmer nests, for they have just returned, with fresher water. A collection of carefully organized boxes- one for every important person in the Eyrie- is set to the left, and Jeyne raises an eyebrow when she spots the one with her name. It does not surprise her to have letters- there will always be vassals to please and merchants who wish for her to open a port to them and the like- but what _does_ take her aback is the writing at the top of the parchment. _To my beloved cousin, the Lady of the Vale,_ it reads in an elegant loop. Her title is standard, but there is a presumption in the 'beloved cousin' aspect of the address. Jeyne had tried to play the part of loving family once and had been repaid for it with treachery. By now, every Arryn knows better than to address her so casually.

She takes the parchment and freezes at the sight of the seal.

_A three-headed dragon._

_Beloved cousin._

There is only one Targaryen who would call her cousin, and Rhaenyra's contact spells only something very good or very bad. With the dragons, there is no in between.

Jeyne cracks open the seal and reads.

Then she rereads.

Slowly, a smile begins to spread across her face.

.

.

.

In the Stormlands, Borros Baratheon twists and turns in his bed. His wife, miraculously, stays asleep beside him. He half-rises, sitting with his back against the headboard, and pours himself a large goblet of Arbor Gold. The wine is strong and sickeningly sweet and he grimaces in disgust at the taste, his mood worsening. His scowl only deepens at the reminder of why he is cross.

 _A grandson,_ he thinks. _Cousin Rhaenys finally has a grandson who is actually her own, and yet it has been four moons, and neither she nor her sword swallower of a son has reached out to me. Not in a possible betrothal between him and my Floris, not even in celebration. Besides a thank you for my congratulations, not a whisper from either of them._

His fists clench.

_Fucking Valyrians. Do they truly think House Baratheon is not worth their time because they ride dragons, or do they just think us ants regardless?_

It is the wine speaking more than anything else, he knows, but still-

His vision flashes red.

As snow falls, heavy, and the wind howls, Borros makes an impulsive promise to himself.

_They will either learn to appreciate myself and my house- and in Rhaenys' case remember to do so- or they will live to dearly regret it._

Now that he has thought it, he must keep it. But rather than anxiety, all that floods Borros' chest is hardened resolve.

.

.

.

"No!" Alicent shrieks. "You cannot take my daughter from me!"

Viserys' joyful expression dies. She rips herself from his embrace, and, ignoring the hurt that flashes across his face, draws herself up to her full height. "Whose idea was it?" she demands. "Was it Rhaenyra who convinced you to send my Helaena into her waiting claws?"

Viserys stands at that, his face going dangerously blank. "Yes," he says, "And you will watch your tongue. Rhaenyra is not just a princess, she is my heir. And she is owed a certain amount of respect.

"You _heir!"_ Her voice goes shrill again. At the narrowing of his eyes, she realizes she has overstepped. Swallowing thickly, she opts for a more soothing tone. "My love," she tries again, "Surely with all that has happened with Aemond, it would not be wise to send another one of our children to Rhaenyra, and especially not as a ward?"

Viserys' eyes flash with fury. He does not enjoy being reminded of what he refers to as the 'incident' and never likes for the royal schism to be so obviously brought before him, but Alicent will risk his anger this once.

She cannot lose Helaena.

For political reasons, to be sure- she needs her wedded to Aegon swiftly in the coming years- but also on a personal level. _My daughter. My darling daughter, my only daughter, and he is willing to send her off to her greedy whore of a sister._

Dragonstone is not safe for any of Alicent Hightower's children. For all of Rhaenyra's faults, she is no kinslayer- though her bastards may grow to be a different matter- but there is no telling what she could do. She could twist Helaena against her mother, could whisper into her ear until she is absolutely certain that Aegon has no right to the throne, could convince her to join the Blacks. She could lie and say Alicent cares not a whit for any of her children besides her firstborn and cut her from her side that way. And besides the obvious political disadvantages, every part of Alicent _burns_ at the thought of her child being stolen from right under her.

"Helaena will go to Dragonstone," Viserys says, words firm, "And she will learn from her sister and grow with her cousins and nephews and niece. And she will be safe from the politics of King's Landing-" here his eyes go to her and she bristles-" She will be happy."

This _fool! Now_ he chooses to grow a spine? Not when Daemon is at his antics, not when Rhaenyra is spreading her legs for any man on Dragonstone?

"My love-"

"Alicent. I have made my decision."

He embraces her after she nods grudgingly, her vision bleeding red. "As you wish, Your Grace," she says stiffly. And if she hated Rhaenrya before, well-

Every fabric of her being _despises_ her now.

Slowly, an insidious plan begins to take shape in her mind. If she requests this of him now, he will be cross and see this as a direct retaliation against Rhaenrya. But soon enough, her husband will feel guilty, and when he feels guilty, he will do nearly anything to make things right.

Alicent smiles against Viserys' shoulder, but it is more of a bearing of teeth than anything else.

_You wish to steal my daughter, Rhaenyra? Well, we will see how sweet your victory is when your own precious Visenya is ripped from you._

.

.

.

At Driftmark, Daemon Targaryen broods. He flies atop Caraxes, snapping his whip as moonlight bathes them both, bitterness engulfing him. There was a time when he would be at Dragonstone right now, at the seat of his ancestors, the seat of his father. Now he is all but banished from the island because of that fucking Laenor Velaryon who was too much a pillow biter to father his first two 'sons' and had somehow found himself man enough to father the boy who should have been Daemon's.

There was a time when the Rogue Prince had Rhaenyra's ear, when she had worshipped him almost as if he was a god himself. Now the heir to High Tide holds the venerable position of being her most influential advisor, and holds much sway over her. Too much sway.

 _How dare they,_ Daemon seethes. _Am I not a Targaryen? Am I not the fucking Rogue Prince? How_ _ **dare**_ _they keep me from Dragonstone!_

A terrible rage fills him. Laenor is not even a Targaryen- he is a Velaryon- and yet he has the power to dictate when the blood of the dragon gets to step foot on his ancestral lands. What a load of horseshit.

And to have the audacity of stealing Aemon, who should have been his-

When Daemon had heard of Rhaenyra's condition, he had celebrated. The birth of a child by him meant that he would always have a hold over her, that he would regain the influence he had lost. The babe had been a symbol of his hopes, of his ambitions, and when he'd been announced as a boy, he'd been beside himself.

At least until the swaddling blankets were pulled back and a head of _black hair_ was revealed. Until _pale violet eyes_ blinked up at him.

And _that_ is what hurts the most, even more than the exile. The fact that Daemon had believed, for a few precious moments, that the child who embodied everything he wanted was a _boy._ That he finally had a _son._

The Rogue Prince's jaw clenches at the memory, at the raw rage and the jagged disappointment. Caraxes, sensing his mood, growls deeply. He snaps his whip again and the dragon shoots into a steep dive.

It has become a nightly habit of theirs, to fly when there is nothing better to do, to work out his rider's frustration, though Caraxes perhaps does not understand that part.

And it helps, to some degree, but still-

Resentment twists in Daemon's chest and festers and festers and festers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot's been slow, so the main point of this interlude was to show some of the political machinations occuring in Westeros right now and how the chess pieces are moving. It doesn't make up for like a month of radio silence but I wanted to get something up, you know?


	20. Helaena

Today is the day. Today Helaena leaves for Dragonstone. As her family gathers at the Dragonpit to send her off, the mood is thick. Father is proud, ecstatic to have his elder daughter take in his younger one as a ward. Mother is furious- her mouth is drawn tightly and her eyes blaze with cold fury and she stands stiffly, hands balled to fists at her sides- but there is nothing she can do about the situation at hand at this point, and she seems to understand this.

As for her brothers, well, Aegon doesn't look happy. His arms are folded across his chest as he stands a distance away, a deep frown marring his face. Aemond is impatient, his foot tapping against the ground, but he looks as if there's something he wants to say as well. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"I'll miss you," Daeron says. Then he begins to sniffle. Helaena kneels at his side and pats his arm.

"I won't be far away," she reassures him. "A quick flight on Dreamfyre and I'll be right back here. And you can visit me anytime you want once Tessarion is old enough." Her youngest brother seems soothed by her words.

Mother walks up to her, takes her hand, draws her close. Helaena sinks into the embrace. "Be strong, my daughter," Mother whispers into her ear, "And do not forget who your family is."

Helaena stiffens at those words. She hates it when Mother gets like this, when Mother gets it into her head that Rhaenyra and her children aren't her family as well. For all the Princess of Dragonstone hates Helaena's mother, for all she is prickly sometimes, she has never been harsh with her personally, and has always tried to be kind for her childrens' sakes if nothing else. Helaena will not pretend that she is the best sister to have ever walked the earth, but she is not a monster. And her children? Her children are like a second set of siblings. Vissie is clever and caring and bold, Luke is sweet and charming in his determination with everything he does, Joff is kind and loving, and Aemon, while only a babe, is already adorable.

_They're my family as well, Mother,_ Helaena wants to snap. She bites her tongue. She learned long ago that arguing with her mother over this is a lost cause, and she won't ruin their farewell by bringing this up now. Instead, she offers a noncommittal hum and kisses her cheek.

"Helaena," Aemond says. He takes her hand in his. "I wish to speak with you." Pinned beneath the prying eyes of their parents, her brother pulls her slightly aside. He embraces her stiffly, unused to the motion, and Helaena pats his back awkwardly.

"Be safe," Aemond says. He scowls. "Dragonstone is not safe for us, especially not when Rhaenyra's children are involved."

In a flash, Helaena understands why they are a distance away from Father. Her brother's expression is dark, his lip curled, and she knows he is remembering the incident with Luke, Joff, and Vissie. "That was an accident and you know it," she replies gently. "Things got out of hand, but Luke wasn't trying to seriously hurt you."

His eyes flash.

"You were not _there,_ sister. I saw the look on Lucerys' face, I saw the way he held that dagger. The little bastard really meant to stab my eye out, and maybe even cut my throat. If Visenya had not saved me…"

He trails off. Helaena runs her fingers along the grooves of his knuckles, traces circles over the back of his hand. He tenses but allows the motions. Peering up at him, she's surprised by what she sees. Aemond's expression, so full of hatred just a moment ago, is softer now at the mention of their niece. That's not to say it's full of love or gentleness- that isn't the case at all- but instead of fury, there's just wariness in his expression. The lines of his face have smoothed out and he just looks… tired.

Helaena's brother clears his throat. "Send Visenya my regards," he murmurs, voice too low for anyone else to hear, "And tell Lucerys to go stick himself with that dagger of his."

_I am decidedly_ _**not** _ _saying that second part._

He turns and begins walking back to the rest of their family. Helaena's fingers twitch, almost as if to reach out for him.

"Aemond," she calls. He stops and tilts his head, shifting so part of him is facing her. "Thank you for your concern."

He nods sharply.

"We have to look after our own."

.

.

.

The flight to Dragonstone is a short one. Helaena is greeted by her sister atop Syrax and her goodbrother atop Seasmoke. Greetings are performed and gifts are exchanged, and Rhaenyra envelopes her in a stiff embrace when they land. "Welcome to Dragonstone," she says, and then in a whirl of activity, Helaena is guided to the chambers which will be hers for the next few years at least.

Supper is a quiet affair, just her sister and goodbrother and their children, but Helaena can sense the tension as she tucks into her food. Luke and Joff sit close to Vissie, flanking her either side but the latter blatantly does not look at the former and Aemon is being cared for by nannies. Rhaenyra eyes her children carefully and Ser Laenor tries to make conversation.

"Do you enjoy the meal, Helaena?" He is casual with her, in both his tone and the way he addresses her, and some of her anxiety drains away.

"Yes, thank you," she replies.

"Baela and Rhaena will be arriving soon," Vissie pipes up. "Once they're here, I figured we could do something together."

Helaena glances at her curiously.

"Like what?" she asks.

Her niece shrugs.

"I could show off what I've learned about water dancing so far, for one."

Helaena raises her head so quickly her neck snaps. "That isn't just a rumor?" she asks.

Rhaenyra scowls and she knows she's said something wrong.

"What rumors?" Her tone is sharp and biting and she flinches. Ser Laenor places a hand over her own. He sends his wife a look she can't decipher and she relaxes, somewhat, but there's still tension in the air. Helaena gets the impression that the Princess of Dragonstone's anger is not directed at her, per say, but rather the fact that there are rumors about one of her children to begin with, but that is a cold comfort in the face of her temper.

The conversation dwindles from there, dying down until they're dining in awkward silence.

.

.

.

Helaena begins her lessons the next morning with Maester Gerardys. She takes them with Vissie, for her niece is ahead of the other children her age, and Luke and Joff, who sit a distance away with their own assignments. She watches her niece as she works. Her brow crinkles when she's focusing and her head cocks when she's in thought- a tell Helaena herself used to have before Mother trained her out of it, but in the span of a second her skin smooths over and she hums victoriously.

Helaena herself has to get along with her work so she opens her books and unrolls a piece of parchment and begins as well. The curriculum here at Dragonstone is a bit different. Mother is ensuring that she receives a basic education, at least, but she has focused her more on training to be a highborn lady than anything else whereas Rhaenyra and her husband have obviously been indulging their daughter's more scholarly pursuits. It isn't overly difficult, but it takes Helaena by surprise. She isn't sure how she feels about it.

Time drags on and she's bored out of her mind when there's a knock at the door. A man with dark blond hair enters the room. "The Princess's water dancing lessons begin within the hour," he says to Maester Gerardys. The Citadel man frowns.

"Princess Visenya is in the midst of a lesson," he replies, and Helaena gets the sense that this is not the first time this conversation has occurred. The man shrugs and the maester bristles.

Vissie is already getting up. She stacks her books together and rolls her parchment and closes her inkwell. "I have to go get ready," she apologizes. Helaena stares at her, and she expands. "I lose track of time during lessons, and if I'm late, Bello will be cross. Besides, Mother's finally letting me do footwork today! I don't want to miss out on that!"

Helaena is still confused, but she understands that Vissie is happy, so she smiles encouragingly. "Good luck."

"Thanks!" Vissie starts to move for the door, mumbling about getting her training gear. Then she pauses. Turning, a mischievous grin spreading along her face, she says, "Want to come along?"

.

.

.

Vissie throws on a beige tunic and brown trousers while her brothers wait outside. She slips brown boots onto her feet and Helaena helps put her hair into a messy braid. A servant could do it just as easily, but… it feels nice. As she does so, as she pushes the hair out of her face and draws it back, Vissie's scar becomes evident. Helaena doesn't flinch- she's seen it before- but she can't quite keep her mouth from slanting downwards in sympathy either. Vissie's bright expression fades somewhat and she knows she caught the expression.

… _Damn._

A lady does not swear, much less a princess, but the thought just _comes_ and she can't help it.

As soon as her hair is taken care of, Vissie stands. "C'mon then, let's go." They begin walking, Luke and Joff accompanying them.

And then they're off, dashing through the halls of Dragonstone hand in hand, though Helaena notices that as Luke reaches for his sister's free palm, Joff takes a step forward and grabs it first, leaving his brother with a hurt look.

_This is the second time there's been discomfort between them._

Helaena files that observation away for later.

For now, she just wants to see if Vissie is any good at this water dancing of hers. And enjoy her free time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but I'm planning on updating again this weekend. It's filler, I'll admit, but there's little things here and there about how the relationships between characters are shifting, so that's something to look out for. Hoping to wrap this arc up soon and move on.
> 
> Next chapter will focus primarily on the kids again with Luke's POV, and the whole thing with him and Joff will be explored more directly.


	21. Lucerys

As they run through the halls of Dragonstone to reach Vissie's teachers, Luke's hand feels cold. Empty. He flexes his fingers once, twice, and tries to shake off the pain of Joff blocking his movement earlier, but it's still there. Helaena throws him a sympathetic glance but Vissie doesn't seem to have noticed.

Joff's move to cut him off wouldn't hurt so much were there was some kind of competition between them for their sister's attention, if he hadn't loved him in the first place, but Luke's little brother has always admired him, and his coldness now stings more than he cares to admit.

_Enough of that._

Vissie rounds a corner easily, leaving the rest of them to stumble behind clumsily besides Helaena, who, as she's older, has more natural movements. Luke watches as his sister laughs lightly at his and Joff's struggle to keep their balance and pouts.

"Don't laugh at us," he says, "It's not fair."

She gives him the patented look she calls 'the puppy dog eyes' and he avoids her gaze.

"I don't understand how you do that," Helaena says. "Now as well as before. One minute, Maester Gerardys didn't want you to leave. The next, he was letting all of us go."

"Well firstly, Hellie," Vissie replies, "I'm his favorite student, his pride and joy. And second, no one can resist the puppy dog eyes, not even _Kepar_ when I'm really trying."

They've reached a large room now, empty save for the two men inside it and a bag slung across the shorter one's shoulder. Luke recognizes the taller one from earlier. He's Breo, he thinks. They're dressed similarly to Vissie. Upon seeing his sister, the shorter man's face breaks out into a small smile.

"A girl has arrived," he notes, and Vissie straightens and becomes serious in a way Luke's only ever seen her act around formal events with everyone's eyes on them.

"Masters."

"You've brought company," her teacher notes. His name is Bello, if Luke remembers correctly.

"I'm sorry for not asking beforehand. I didn't think it would be a problem."

Master Bello waves a hand. "It should not be, if a girl remains focused." When Vissie assures him she will, he gestures to a far-off wall. "A girl's companions may sit there."

Once they settled, Master Bello gestures to Master Breo. "An apprentice will set the course."

Master Breo takes the bag from his mentor and opens it, dumping its contents on the floor. Slabs of wood, rope, and other things clatter and he begins to arrange them in a pattern.

_It looks like a ladder,_ Luke realizes.

"Today, a girl will grow used to footwork. She will watch her teachers go through this course beforehand, and then she will follow their examples. The better she does, the more difficult things will become, but today is simply a learning day. Is this clear?"

"Yes, Master."

Once the course is set up, Master Bello begins to move. He bobs and weaves through the obstacles, putting one foot in before hopping out and then putting the other foot back. He repeats this until he reaches the end. It looks challenging, but he isn't breathing hard. Master Breo follows his lead, and then it's Vissi's turn.

Luke's sister stumbles for a moment, but then she gets used to it. She doesn't do it as easily as either of the Braavosi men and she trips once or twice, but she keeps going until she reaches the end. Luke shoots her an encouraging smile and what she calls a 'thumbs up.' She grins back at him.

"Not bad," Master Bello observes, and Luke feels a burst of pride. Helaena smiles. Even Joff, who was even more against the idea of Vissie learning how to fight than Luke, seems pleased.

The lesson continues, and they cheer her on all the way through.

.

.

.

If Luke had any hopes about Joff easing up after seeing Vissie train, they're thoroughly dashed. Throughout the rest of the day he spends his time making sure he doesn't get too close. It gets to the point where Mother and Father are both frowning deeply and where Vissie gets tense any time they're in the same place, which is most times.

As they settle in for the night, Luke can't take it anymore. He's sprawled out across his bed, Joff nearby in his own, burrowing under his covers for warmth.

"It's cold tonight, isn't it?" He tries to make smalltalk, but all he gets in return is an angry glare. Luke bunches his blanket up in his hands, flexes his fingers around the material until his fists turn white, and waits.

Joff still doesn't say anything.

Luke shrinks into himself. He knows what this anger is about, knows it has to do with him slashing their sister's face open, accident or no, and he can't find it within himself to be angry. Sometimes he'll get frustrated, get upset, and then he'll remember Vissie's blood splattering across the ground and the stickiness of her skin as they carried her back and the scar that marrs her face now, and all the righteous fury leaves him.

Silence descends upon them, thick and uncomfortable and suffocating, and still, Joff will not look at him. Luke's chest hurts. He turns his back to his brother, faces the wall, and closes his eyes.

"... You let her die." He nearly snaps his back twisting around when his brother utters those words. "First you cut her open and then you let her die."

He doesn't need to say who 'she' is. It's obviously Vissie.

Luke frowns in confusion. He hurt Vissie- he's guilty of that much- but she's _alive_. He hasn't _killed_ her. "What are you talking about?" he demands.

Joff's shoulders hunch. "Vissie was flying to her death and you followed her, but you didn't make it in time. She died because you couldn't save her."

Luke reels back. At first there's still confusion, then hurt, and finally anger. He understands his brother resents him for the mess with Aemond- Seven, he resents _himself_ \- but blaming him for something he can't control is a step too far, especially if that's what he's been cross about all day. "Arrax can't even fly yet!" he snaps. "How would I save her?"

Joff gets up and blankets go flying. "Arrax _was_ old enough to fly! I _saw_ you go after her! When she fell from the sky, you did _nothing!"_ He throws a punch at Luke, but it's a weak one and his eyes are blurry with tears. "She wasn't moving, she wasn't _breathing_!"

His brother may be big for his age, but Luke is stronger and faster and larger still and he lunges. In a tangle of limbs, they land on the floor in a heap. Joff's elbow juts out, hitting him in the face, and he feels pain bloom across his skin and blood seep into his mouth. He grips his brother's shoulders, forcing him down. Kneeing him in stomach, he spits, "You're attacking me because of a _dream_?"

"A _dragon dream!"_

Luke freezes at that. Everyone and their mother knows what a dragon dream is. If Joff has had one, and it involves Vissie _dying-_

"Tell me what you saw," Luke says quietly. Joff scowls up at him. His fingers dig into his skin. "If you tell me, I can help you help her to not die."

His brother pauses at that. Eyes narrowed, he shoves Luke off him. He lets it happen. "Fine," he grunts. And then he starts talking.

When he's done, Luke is even more confused. He doesn't understand everything that's been said (and how could he? he's too young) but he knows Joff hasn't dreamed up anything good, he knows Vissie will get hurt.

As their eyes meet, brown on brown, accusatory against defiant, he feels his jaw clench. But Joff's anger has cooled, somewhat, now that the truth is out in the open, and maybe a good venting was what he needed most.

Luke's hand extends, hanging in the air until his brother grips it tightly.

"Nothing is going to happen to Vissie," he promises. "We'll protect her together."

And that's when the dam breaks and Joff begins to cry.

.

.

.

From that moment on, something shifts between them. Joff becomes less sullen when Luke is around and Luke doesn't curl in on himself so much. They watch Vissie train and grow and learn and count the days until they can become squires. Water dancing will not help them in Westerosi combat, but their sister offers to teach them a few tricks and they take the advice.

Joff is Luke's brother, his flesh and blood, his best friend, and for that he loves him. But there is something more to things now; they are united by a common purpose. And as time moves on and Vissie turns eight and Luke six and Joff four, as Baela and Rhaena turn seven and Helaena twelve and Aemon reaches his first name day and they prepare to head off to King's Landing for Grandpapa's name day, this bond only strengthens.

And for the first time since Vissie got her scar, Luke feels as if things are alright between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be the last or second to last before the planned timeskip! Whoo! So far this fic has been slow on the plot and primarily been character driven, but things should pick up at least a bit with higher character ages.


End file.
